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"Come, now, a'n't there something I've got that you want?" he asked as Shenac turned away with an impatient shrug. "No; not if you haven't a wig. Do we want anything, mother? It is not worth while to open your box in the rain." Mr Rugg was already out of hearing. "We can look at them, at any rate," said Shenac Dhu.
But how were you discovered, Antoinette?" "My wig came off," replied the girl. "One of the Germans tapped me playfully on the head, and his ring caught in my hair. The next thing I knew I was a prisoner." "It's too bad," said the major. "We have lost a valuable assistant now. Of course, there is no use in your remaining here longer. You must go with us."
He paid me ridiculous compliments mixed with scraps of French and Spanish, and, finding his conversation distasteful, he insisted upon attempting several songs not one of which he was able to finish, and at last began one which for some reason made his lordship angry, who gave him a cuff on his head that scattered all the scented powder in his wig; on which, instead of starting up furious to return the blow, as I feared to see him, Mr.
"I am glad to see you so bright," he said; "but you always look blooming." And he sat down and gazed around sadly. Perhaps Jacques had never before so closely resembled a tulip. His coat was red, his waistcoat scarlet, his lace yellow, his stockings white; his shoes, lastly, were adorned with huge rosettes, and his wig was a perfect snow-storm of powder.
One can imagine nothing viler than those holes, full of smoke, cob-webs hanging on the black beams, those old sworders and young men drinking, shouting, and beating the tables like crazy people; and behind, in the shadow, old Annette Schnaps or Marie Héring her old wig stuck back on her head, her comb with only three teeth remaining, crosswise, in it gazing on the scene, or emptying a mug to the health of the braves.
"Marriage makes a man much wiser," said the marquis, after a pause. "I smile now to think how often I sighed at the thought of growing old. Now I reconcile myself to the gray hairs without dreams of a wig, and enjoy youth still; for," pointing to his sons, "it is there!"
But a common fellow may pass them. If you would lend me your fine clothes and that great wig, and condescend to my subfuse and bob, there's no one would take so shabby a fellow for yourself. Maybe I might make a show to break out one way, while you slipped past by another." "And left you to bear the brunt for me? I complain of you again, Mr. Boyce you do not much value my honour."
When that alien-looking advocate with unsuspected gifts had cast off the wig and gown, and had busied himself for years filling up reams of paper with his thoughts and studies on people, places, and things, sightseers going through the Courts would be shown this unused box, which remained so empty while those around it of his old rivals at the Spec, were full, as they were scaling the heights which lead to titles and the Bench.
His ancient wig scattered dust and powder as he went, while a single buckle of some tawdry metal gave a look of oddity to his clumsy, slipshod feet. A caricature of a man, he ambled and chuckled and seized the easy pleasures within his reach. There was never a summer's day but he caught upon his brow the few faint gleams of sunlight that penetrated the gloomy yard.
P. talks with Burns at eighty-seven; Byron, grown old and fat, wears a wig and spectacles; Shelley is reconciled to the Church of England; Coleridge finishes "Christabel"; Keats writes a religious epic on the millennium; and George Canning is a peer. On our side of the sea, Dr.
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