1. . Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. He did like her, anyhow; he was always pleased to be with her. I knew it was in vain to cry 'murder!' in the Mint, so I had recourse to stratagem. “Let me help you,” he begged. The contest, however, though desperate, was brief. Maggot. There was a loose button on that coat, and I want to sew it on.
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