And mind he doesn't stir out of your sight, on any pretence whatever, till I call. So long. She regarded the young man coldly. She had a horrible glimpse of the once nice little old lady being also borne stationward, still faintly battling and very muddy—one lock of grayish hair straggling over her neck, her face scared, white, but triumphant. The roofs and gables of many of the houses had been torn off. John knew everybody, it seemed. Ennison, or any other young man. Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg.
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