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They were all stout ill-favoured men, attired in the regular jail-livery of scratch wig and snuff-coloured suit; and had all a strong family likeness to each other. My name is Wild— Jonathan Wild. Buried under various ancestral sixteenths, smothered under modern thought, liberty of action and bewildering variety of flesh-pots, it was still alive to the extent that it needed only his present state to resuscitate it in all its peculiar force. Then I tucked it nice and snug under the saddle-bag.
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This video was uploaded to waterscolumns.info on 26-09-2024 19:17:31