The air was pungent and leaden. Mounting the door he had last opened, he placed his hands on the wall above, and quickly drew himself up. Just now the waterchestnuts…. Now I am sorry to cross you in anything you have set your heart upon, but I regret to say—” “H’m,” he reflected, and crossed out the last four words. Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg.
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