" "Are you friendly toward him?" asked McClintock, passing a fine cigar across the table. And, anyhow, it doesn’t matter to us. Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. Little did I imagine at the time that it was my own father to whom he referred. . Why did you let him have it?" "Let him have it? I can't stand at the elbow of any of the guests and regulate his or her actions. "'Odd's-my-life!—what's that?" he cried, greatly alarmed. Opening the door he then stepped into a dark narrow passage leading, as he was well aware, to the chapel.
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