Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. I've another reason for supposing he'll pay me a visit. But she was not to be tempted. He picked up the remote and sat himself to her right. Evidently in the flower of his age, he was scarcely less remarkable for symmetry of person than for comeliness of feature; and, though his attire was plain and unpretending, it was such as could be worn only by one belonging to the higher ranks of society. His slightest move caused her infinite pleasure. Melusine shrugged.
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