Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. I am Lucilla Froxfield, you must know. " "Ah!" ejaculated the widow, hiding her face. \"Sure. ” She put her face closer to his. “You poor thing. She only weighed about 100 pounds and she was about 5’9”, much taller than you and I. There was a tearing sound and the cloth of her habit ripped apart as the smothered point drove through it, missing its intended target. “You mean to tell me” he said, “that you have a lover? While I have been keeping you! Yes—keeping you!” This view of life he hurled at her as if it were an offensive missile. " "No; it is only—what shall I say?—troubled. " He laughed and pushed back his chair. ” Mrs. .
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