But he didn’t marry her. That's the only fault I know of. Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. "By that time, I shall have fully considered a plan which occurs to me for defeating the schemes of your enemies. Notwithstanding her emaciation, her features still retained something of a pleasing expression, and might have been termed beautiful, had it not been for that repulsive freshness of lip denoting the habitual dram-drinker; a freshness in her case rendered the more shocking from the almost livid hue of the rest of her complexion. ‘Your wife?’ ‘My wife,’ he repeated, rising also, his smile mocking her.
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