Once outside, she ran towards the playground, and the grotto, a miniature limestone version of the manor, which was in itself a miniature of a fortress. “And aren’t there fees to pay at the Imperial College?” her aunt was saying—a disagreeable question. I want my freedom. Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. He had bled everywhere, but she had struck when the opportunity was ripe.
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