There was just time for the girl to raise her arm to chest height and draw it back before Roding seized her. She read on and on, now thrilled by the swiftly moving drama, now enraptured by the tender passages of love. His shirt was unfastened, his vest unbuttoned, his hose ungartered; his feet were stuck into a pair of pantoufles, his arms into a greasy flannel dressing-gown, his head into a thrum-cap, the cap into a tie-periwig, and the wig into a gold-edged hat. My name is Wild— Jonathan Wild.
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