"You hay'n't hurt your arm, I trust, my dear?" he added, anxiously. I love you more. Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. After all, what did it matter?—it or anything else in the world? She was within reach of his arms, beautiful, compelling, herself as it seemed suddenly conscious of the light which was burning in his eyes. “I refuse. But, I'll expose him. There was nothing to be learned from her face.
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