Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. During this colloquy, Jack had contrived unobserved to put on the hood and cloak, and being about the size of the rightful owner, presented a very tolerable resemblance to her. He begged their attention for the next turn. Then he could hear Hilary breathing beside him, and from outside the muted twittering of birds. " "Dare not!" echoed the carpenter; "I don't understand you, Joan.
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