But he did not follow on with the thought. ‘For God’s sake, let go my hand,’ he begged. It was easy to imagine great power in such a man. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. "Dog!" cried Wild, freeing himself by a powerful effort, and dealing Jack a violent blow with the heavy bludgeon, which knocked him backwards, "you are not yet a match for Jonathan Wild. It was one of those old sliding trap affairs, narrow and steep of descent. On a bench at the foot of the trees, with a pipe in his mouth, and a tankard by his side, sat the worthy carpenter, looking the picture of good-heartedness and benevolence. She had never thought of him at all in that way before. As she went on, the story began to sound more and more like a recitation.
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