I sha’n’t care a rap if we can never marry. Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. "A sail?" said McClintock. ‘Have I not said so?’ ‘No, as it happens. It’s no good. The mere fact that he was there in the train alongside her, helping her, sitting opposite to her in the dining-car, presently sleeping on a seat within a yard of her, made her heart sing until she was afraid their fellow passengers would hear it. I’ve got nothing to do for a month but think.
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