How Jonathan Wild's House was burnt down. He might call her wife, but she refused to give him his wedding night. His features were regular, and finely-formed; his complexion bright and blooming,—a little shaded, however, by travel and exposure to the sun; and, with a praiseworthy contempt for the universal and preposterous fashion then prevailing, of substituting a peruke for the natural covering of the head, he allowed his own dark-brown hair to fall over his shoulders in ringlets as luxuriant as those that distinguished the court gallant in Charles the Second's days—a fashion, which we do not despair of seeing revived in our own days. Why was he there? why did the tempter dare to invade that sacred spot! She could not answer her own questions, but vague fearful suspicions passed through her mind. She could smell his cologne underneath his collar, or perhaps his aftershave. And she found herself able to do nothing of the sort. It did not cheer or fortify him with false courage and recklessness; it simply enveloped him in a mist of unreality. It seemed to her at this moment that there was nothing left for her to do. He saw the colossal selfishness of his act; but he could not beg off on the plea of abnormality. He was still thickly clad in jeans. The odour of coconut prevailed, delicately but abidingly; for, save for the occasioned pleasure junket, The Tigress was a copra carrier, shell and fibre.
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