Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. As the night advanced, Mr. She could not go to him with a preachment against strong drink; she knew from experience that such a plan would be wasted effort. She had begun to care about her appearance again, looking into the glass he gave her, a thing nearly priceless that was bordered in intricate golden filigree and rubies.
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