Outside stood a stocky, combat boot-clad girl of seventeen with a teased mass of spiky bottle-black hair. “Whither away?” he said, very distinctly in a curiously wheedling voice. But it is not your name. Funk! I’ll see it out. Oh, I know. ‘Because I love you. Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. Solomon Smith, chapmen, (or what in modern vulgar parlance would be termed bagmen) travelling to procure orders for the house of an eminent cloth manufacturer in Manchester.
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