While he thus vented his rage, the door again opened, and Quilt Arnold rushed into the room, bleeding, and half-dressed. She could see that she was now the exclusive object of the boy’s attention. I hope I may never come near her. The curve of his shoulders, the very angle of his feet, expressed relief at her apparent obedience. Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. There were one or two bitter moments in his life when he had been made to feel that gentility laid on with a brush may sometimes crack and show weak places—that deportment and breeding are after all things apart. With this view, he suffered him to pass on. "Always plenty to spare.
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