Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. It was an oldfashioned peasant blouse, white, square necked, and trimmed with lace. Gay, was a stout, good-looking, good-humoured man, about thirty-six, with a dark complexion, an oval face, fine black eyes, full of fire and sensibility, and twinkling with roguish humour—an expression fully borne out by the mouth, which had a very shrewd and sarcastic curl. You can’t do without an agent, and there’s no one can run you better than I can. “You are too good for me,” she said in a low voice. "You shall have the sum you require, but——" "But what, Madam!" "Do not misunderstand me," she proceeded.
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