She meant to leave anyway, or so she would tell herself later. Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. Her brown curls were pulled tight in a severe chignon. He met her eyes with his fiery black gaze. ’ The smile vanished. . He was now within a foot of the bar, and introducing himself into the hole, speedily worked his way to it. Sir John hesitated. ’ ‘You’re going?’ asked his friend, and the note of relief was marked.
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