She shuddered; the room was unfamiliar and unwelcoming. Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. The sight o' your 'andsome phiz allys does me good. I felt somehow I’d hurt you. She had now the clear and tranquil expression of one whose mind is made up. The trees were graceful and brown, arching and fanning their golden leaves as if to shower with coins the pink-gold sky. You speak as one injured—as though I had been the one to take your name—as though you had been the one to make sacrifices. He was sipping a glass of cold gin and water, and smoking a short black pipe.
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