Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. “I am glad,” she told herself, “I came. Ann Veronica’s universe, which had never been altogether so respectful to her as she could have wished, gave a shout and whirled head over heels. There was little fighting spirit here. Had he been sick in the mind when he had done this damnable thing? It did not seem possible, for he could recall clearly all he had said and done; there were no blank spaces to give him one straw of excuse. Manning think?” said her aunt. “What’s going on with you?” John asked inquisitively, looking down at her abdomen.
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