There were two. When she came to, she was lying with her head in Martha’s lap, and a livid bruise was forming at the point of a raging headache. She was, as Capes had said, a hard young woman. He knew it absolutely, as if he had the check in his hand. But it was of no avail. Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. He kissed her at the door. Spurling. “Oh! please don’t lose yourself in a wilderness of secondary considerations,” she said. It did not cheer or fortify him with false courage and recklessness; it simply enveloped him in a mist of unreality.
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