Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. He stopped short with a little exclamation of surprise. "My friends, Mr. "I leave this bowl for you," he cried, returning it to the landlord untasted. “Difficulties indeed. '—'No fear o' that,' thought I. Her feathered hat fell from her head and down her back, and she felt fingers writhing in the mass of her hair and caressing the flesh of her neck beneath so that she shivered uncontrollably. She was suddenly very aware of the room, the television still blaring, and the chill in the air.
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