He had tossed an honoured name into the mire; he required no prison bars to accentuate this misery. The act was mechanical, a bit of sparring for time: his anger was searching about for a new vent. His shirt was unfastened, his vest unbuttoned, his hose ungartered; his feet were stuck into a pair of pantoufles, his arms into a greasy flannel dressing-gown, his head into a thrum-cap, the cap into a tie-periwig, and the wig into a gold-edged hat. ’ The lady stamped her foot. We all love you dearly. Spurling, who did not dare to exhibit her satisfaction otherwise than by privately pinching the arm of her expected husband. But all that could be ascertained in the village was, that a man had ridden off a short time before in the direction of London. This fracture was the handiwork of Jack Parrot (otherwise called Jack the Grinder), who broke into the palace of the Bishop of Norwich.
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