Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. What passed between them I cannot think—I dare not. ‘Open the door, fool!’ Then he had Melusine by the shoulders and was hustling her into the hackney. He looked like a French boy soldier she had once glimpsed marching towards his death in one of the battles they would later call the Hundred Years War. It isn't for their sakes, it's for your own. And for twelve years he has been so; until his long security, well-nigh obliterating remembrance of the deed, has bred almost a sense of innocence within his breast. Ruth broke the exquisite pose by summoning Ah Cum, who was lured into a lecture upon the water-clock.
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