Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. Kneebone assured her that he did say so; and, as a further proof of his sincerity, squeezed her hand very warmly under the table. “You’ll get me to allude to it, but you’d have to torture me to admit it. He waved an arm and spoke with a peculiar resonance. Mauled about!” She fell to rubbing her insulted lips savagely with the back of her hand. O God! O God!" And he appeared convulsed with agony.
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