“Who killed her husband?” “Go and nurse him, missus!” “Murderess!” Anna looked from left to right. “What’s odd?” “Oh, everything!” She shivered, and went to the fire and poked it. Angelina's distress over these mischances was pathetic. They had both been unsuccessful. The ruffian's companions took his part. . She felt much better. I’d take it— forgive me if I seem a little urgent—as a sort of proof of friendliness. Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. It was shameful, but again, her mother had prepared her for it.
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