The mob pursued the thief-taker and his party all the way, and such missiles as could be collected were hurled at them. " "From some of your associates?" "From your uncle, from my uncle,—Sir Rowland Trenchard. He rose deliberately to his feet and confronted them. This did not affect Spurlock. A man is so apt to—to take women a little too lightly. "Impossible!" echoed Wild, with a fearful imprecation. 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. Spurlock was basically a poet, quick to recognize beauty, animate or inanimate, and to transcribe it in unuttered words.
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