Lucy's grin faded. Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. Wood was scarcely seated before Mr. “Your great success has been my joy, our joy as well as yours. Every now and then she fingered an ornament, moved a piece of furniture, or rearranged some draperies. “Then why the devil,” he demanded, “do you let me stand you dinners and the opera—and why do you come to a cabinet particuliar with me?” He became radiant with anger.
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