"Dog!" cried Wild, freeing himself by a powerful effort, and dealing Jack a violent blow with the heavy bludgeon, which knocked him backwards, "you are not yet a match for Jonathan Wild. Sepulchre's church. The world isn't real yet; she hasn't comparisons by which to govern her acts. Too easily roused emotions and too little passion. "To paint your portrait," answered the jailer. Then Capes flittered to the hearthrug and poked the fire, stood up, and turned about. He rambled in an unfortunate monotone, the result of his innate fear of public speaking. You mustn't go dressing up Tom, Dick, and Harry in Henry Esmond's ruffles.
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