If a cart were coming, or those labourers in the field had heard, escape was impossible. It seemed to them they could never have been really alive before, but only dimly anticipating existence. ‘At last,’ he cried, ‘I have found you!’ He would listen to nothing. Wood trembled. I was—I was a corespondent. Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. The door closed softly upon her.
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