Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. ‘Do not think—’ he panted, ‘that I am finished—with you, mademoiselle. ” He put his hands in his pockets, his mouth puckered to a whistle, and he went to the door of the outer preparation-room and stood there, looking, save for the faintest intensification of his natural ruddiness, the embodiment of blond serenity. "So I will," rejoined Shotbolt; "so I will.
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