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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. She had tried him as a Crusader, in which guise he seemed plausible but heavy—“There IS something heavy about him; I wonder if it’s his mustache?”—and as a Hussar, which made him preposterous, and as a Black Brunswicker, which was better, and as an Arab sheik. “We are to begin our married life to-night—here where I first met you. ’ He screamed at me through the rope and tape, it was no use. Michelle looked her up and down, liking the results of her efforts. Marvel, who, as he had helped to deprive her of her former husbands, thought himself in duty bound to offer to supply their place. So he sharpened a score of pencils, and after fiddling about and rewriting the last page he had written the previous night, he plunged into work.
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