Her shoulders were gripped hard and a familiar voice spoke. Rain started to pummel the roof of the pavilion, which coalesced into sheets and rumbled to the cement below. "Sir!" exclaimed Winifred, rising. The steps, even the pavements, were invaded by little knots of loungers driven outside by the unusual heat of the evening, most of them in evening dress, or what passed for evening dress in Montague Street. Were you born here, madame?’ ‘Mais non. "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.
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