Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. If you don’t like it, I won’t be mad, I promise. It would be useless to tell her to go back, even heartless; and yet he could not advise her to go on, blindly, not knowing whether her aunt was dead or alive. With a rustle of her full lilac petticoats, Miss Froxfield turned back to Alderley. Guiding this man of hers over the troubled sea of life had engraved these lines. He declined supper, but took wine. And, as he was about to put himself into a posture of defence, his mother clasped him in her arms. ’ ‘That I do not doubt,’ Gerald muttered drily, but added in a tone of intense satisfaction, ‘Then this husband is still in France? Excellent.
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