“I know nothing about your wife. Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. " "So did I," said Winifred. If he adhered to this policy—to keep away from her inconspicuously—she would forget the name by night, and to-morrow even the bearer of it would sink below the level of recollection. . ’ ‘That is what you think? Eh bien. ’ The lodgekeeper’s jaw fell open. As he stood upon the bridge, he held down the light, and looked into the profound abyss.
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