Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. ‘And you come to me, thinking yourself half French, and expect me to take you in. One can't help being jealous, you know, even of an unworthy object. The poor child! What frightful things she must have seen on that island of hers! The noise of crashing glass caused a diversion; and Ruth turned gratefully toward the sound. 5. It was an excuse, dredged up on the spur of the moment to cover a slip. “I’ll go,” he said, “but I warn you that I shall find you out.
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