Take my word for it, your troubles are over. ‘His wife? Pah!’ ‘You’re saying she is not his wife?’ ‘I am saying nothing. He was walking listlessly along, well-dressed, debonnair, good-looking. “You do not quite understand,” she said gently. He looked at Hilary and nodded. Anna passed serenely out. Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. No breakfast, he’s had no dinner, hardly a mouthful of soup— since yesterday at tea.
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