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Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. " "Are they good?" "He can write; but he hasn't found anything real to write about. " Jack started to his feet; but before he could defend himself, his right arm was grasped by the Jew who had silently approached him. Jolly nice girl, too. “You silly fool,” he said.
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