"From Jonathan Wild's confidential servant what could be expected but treachery?" With this, he proceeded to dress himself in Quilt Arnold's clothes, pulled the wig over his face and eyes so as completely to conceal his features, slouched the hat over his brows, drew the huge boots above his knees, and muffled himself up in the best way he could. "He's in St. " CHAPTER XI. And yet—such is the buoyancy of youth—within a fortnight he began his first novel, pretending to himself that it was on Ruth's account. He wrote poems to her beauty that he recited from a seemingly infinite memory. She had seen her really only at teas, with the Stanley strain in her uppermost. She stood there with white set face and nervously clenched fingers.
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