Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. Presently he began to weave a tale, sorry enough, with all the ancient claptraps and rusted platitudes. She was always the last person to exit after the crowds had stampeded, trailing slowly behind them like dust. Arrived at the extremity of the building, he found that it overlooked the flat-roof of a house which, as far as he could judge in the darkness, lay at a depth of about twenty feet below. So he liked to go by a different train. A friend of mine, Ogilvy’—I suppose that’s Ogilvy & Ogilvy, who do so many divorces, Vee?—‘was speaking very highly of it—very highly!’” He smiled into her eyes. ” She shook her head gently.
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