Then she threw the volume away with a little impatient exclamation. "Wet your whistle before you start, Jack," said Kneebone, pouring out a glass of ale. He had, he felt, to create certain ideas and vivify certain curiosities and feelings in her. He had no use for Ann Veronica; he had never had a use for her since she had been too old to sit upon his knee. Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. He opened his eyes, protestingly, and beheld the realization of his dream. She is, in her way, a dear. Winny, show the person into this room. I didn’t dream, not even in my wildest dreaming, that—you might have any need of me.
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