Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. He could not tell by the look of her whether she was glad or sorry that presently she would be free. "Are you a poltroon, after all?" "That's it! I ought to have died that night!" "Or is there a taint of insanity in your family history? Alone and practically penniless like yourself! You weren't even stirred by gratitude. ‘Is that why you allowed me in, ma’am?’ A dimple appeared in the faded cheek.
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