JACK SHEPPARD. A vague desire to justify himself ruffled her father. I tell you I’m Meysey Hill, the railway man. His hand flew across the paper. “That is very nice of you,” she said. Vorsack echoed him. What CAN she put before that?” His voice began to rise. Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. And she—’ ‘She!’ interrupted the young lady crossly. She threw out a hand to stop herself from cannoning into them and, losing balance, tripped over her own petticoats and fell to the carpeted floor, her hat falling off as she did so. To be sure, he was attentive, respectful; but in his conduct there was none of that shameless camaraderie of a man who loved his woman and didn't care a hang if all the world knew it.
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