Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. He would discuss something she had been reading, and he would give her some unexpected angle, setting a fictional character before her with astonishing clearness. He came over to me. He could not quite make her out; a new type. " "Mother be——!" returned Jack. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. "I know you'll not deceive me.
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