Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. People are afraid of her that no one has ever dared to make fun of her. My wife—killed me. Wish SHE”—he indicated Miss Klegg’s back with a nod—“was at the bottom of the sea. Do you remember when we went right away, Nigel, and forgot everything? We went down the river past Veraz, and the larks were singing all over those deep brown fields, and the river further on wound its way like a coil of silver across the rich meadowland, and along the hillside vineyards.
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