“It is strange that we should have met Annabel,” she said. The sounds of the seashore infiltrated her dreams as she floated in heavenly bliss of sleep. Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. She took it for granted Ann Veronica wore stays—mild stays, perhaps, but stays, and thought no more of the matter. They were now in a sort of cellar, at one end of which was a door.
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