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‘For God’s sake, let go my hand,’ he begged. ‘Now what?’ The guard jerked his head up the corridor. She still had her letter of credit. Amongst others, Mr. The hour for which, presumably, she had been created was drawing nigh. Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. Probably the latter, for the thronging ballroom was insufferably hot. It was such an unexpected stroke of fortune.
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