" His demeanour was polished; his manners singularly affable and gentle; and he was remarkable, for the generosity of his temper. And Pottiswick, of course. Infested by every description of vagabond and miscreant, it was, perhaps, a few degrees worse than the rookery near Saint Giles's and the desperate neighbourhood of Saffron Hill in our own time. ‘You do not dare look in my clothes. His face, as he looked down where his hand sought for a weapon concealed in her petticoat, was so close that she could see only the line of his firm jaw, the drag of his powdered hair that drew it into the military pigtail, and the black ribbon that adorned it. Wild horses wouldn’t drag it out of me, even I knew anything, which I don’t.
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