Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. Here was one that subtly mocked her. ” Her words were slurred with sleep. She would be elemental; there would be in her somewhere the sleeping tigress. Who invented them? Nobody knows. “Are you a special sort of clergyman,” she said, after a pause, and looking down her nose at him, “or do you go to the Universities?” “Oh!” he said, profoundly.
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