I thought that you were he. " "Follow me, then," cried Thames, drawing his sword, and springing through the window. He left that arid rule clear of the least mist of refinement or delicacy. "Of course," rejoined the bystander, who had just spoken, and who was of a cynical turn,—"the greater the rascal, the better they like him. Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. Stars appeared in the periphery of her vision.
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