He wore a battered sunhelmet, a loin-cloth and a pair of dilapidated canvas shoes. "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. "Nobody composes any more, nobody paints, nobody writes—I mean, on a par with what we've just heard. To be sure, Ruth had dimly been aware of this; but now for the first time she was made painfully conscious of it.
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