Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. They stank, and she hated how they blocked the sunlight. I've seen many a clever cracksman, but never one like him. Descending the hollow, or rather excavation,—for it was an old disused clay-pit, at the bottom of which the cottage was situated,—he speedily succeeded in arousing the ancient sibyl, and having committed Edgeworth Bess to her care, with a promise of an abundant reward in case she watched diligently over her safety, and attended to her comforts till his return,—to all which Black Mary readily agreed,—he departed with a heart lightened of half its load. These things were common knowledge among the bon ton, who were generously welcoming these unfortunate escapees. “I have not quarrelled with her. ) You are all the slender goddesses. Go away now, there’s a good lad.
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