It reminded her viscerally of her subhuman status, stripped away of the pretenses of art, intellect, and nicety. Every rule is against me—Why did I let you begin this? I might have told—” “I don’t see that you could help—” “I might have helped—” “You couldn’t. They don’t now. “And yet,” he said, “you bid me talk cheerfully, or not at all. "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 pushed her to his bed, little more than a cot, and pulled off her clothes.
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