“If only Sir John were not Sir John I would ask you to come and have some supper. Your aunt liked the pheasant. One or two of the tables were occupied by groups of fat frowzy women in flat caps, with rings on their thumbs, and baskets by their sides; and no one who had listened for a single moment to their coarse language and violent abuse of each other, would require to be told they were fish-wives from Billingsgate. “I don’t see what he has to do with my coming to London?” “He—he worships the ground you tread on. I believe that he will marry her. He's nice. Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. She propped a pillow against his padded headboard and sat herself into a stiff upright position, legs expertly crossed. So I introduced him to my father-in-law like a shot.
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