He measured out the portion of another peg, the bottle wavering in his hand. “That’s what you’re going to wear. And opposite to him, with a book in his hand,—but it couldn't be a prayer-book,—sat Jonathan Wild, in a parson's cassock and band. Even an unlikely episode such as this could not be ignored. A quarter of an hour passed. He was a man who in all things classified without nuance, and for him there were in the matter of age just two feminine classes and no more—girls and women.
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