Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. While he was straining every sinew, his foot slipped, and he fell, head foremost, into a deep trench, which he had not observed in the dark. Indeed it was apparent, from the likeness between them, that they were nearly related. “The wrappered life-discipline! One comes to that at last. “I mean to go to prison directly the session is over,” said Miss Klegg. At a little distance from the party, sat a tall, sinister-looking personage, with harsh inflexible features, a gaunt but muscular frame, and large bony hands. But she could tell by the dullness of his eyes that he saw only some inner vision. The raising of twenty-five pounds was a task altogether beyond her powers. We shall both, I hope, live to enjoy our shares—long after Thames Darrell is forgotten—ha! ha! A third of your estate I accept.
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