Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. Her curiosity was insatiable, her dreams filled with happy speculation over what hair color her babies would inherit. "That's a glorious reward. She speedily reached her own abode,—a little cottage, standing in the outskirts of the village. You are going to accept a post as chorus girl, or super, or something of that sort. All her tender lures, inherent and acquired, had shattered themselves futilely against the reserve he had set between them.
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