Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. "My God! will you see your child strangled before your eyes, and not so much as scream for help?" said Wood, staring at the widow with a look of surprise and horror. “You are an impostor. "What motive have you for concealment?" he demanded. “I don’t know whether I shall go on,” said Gwen, a novel note of languorous professionalism creeping into her voice. She followed the official back into his room. A young man with shiny frock coat and very high collar, advanced towards her languidly.
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