Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. ‘Brung the lantern, I did, and opened the door again in case you was ready. In the northwest angle, there was a small pen for female offenders, and, on the south, a more commodious enclosure appropriated to the master-debtors and strangers. Her anger parlayed with her confusion, as she realized that the new marriage was about as optional as the first one and her hunger was growing inside her like a weed. It wasn't worth while to invest imaginatively a man with evil projects simply because he was physically ugly. “Go it, miss!” cried one. There was no need of sowing suspicion when he wasn't really certain there were grounds for it.
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