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Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. In one of the cabins a man sat on the edge of his narrow bunk. There was the cottage she had inhabited for so many years,—in those fields she had rambled,—at that church she had prayed. “I don’t know,” said Ann Veronica; “I think I am.

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