Half an hour passed, but Jack did not make his appearance. “You met no one upon the stairs, or saw no one leave the flats?” “No one,” Anna answered firmly. Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. He described her privately to himself as a splendid girl. “You see, Vee,” said Mrs. His clothes were smartly pressed, his linen white, his jaws cleanly shaven; but the day would come when he would grow indifferent to bodily cleanliness.
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