Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. He hung precariously on the ragged edge, but he hung there. I am not boring you, am I?” She raised her eyes to his and smiled into his face. “Please stay,” she said briefly. Do have some tea, won’t you? If you must, go then. She tightened her bandage and sat back, biting her lip. "You know not what you do.
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