“You are the type that I want to marry someday, you’ve got a beautiful body, such pretty eyes. Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. Still, thereafter she had avoided Morgan's; partly out of fear and partly because of her father's mandate. Won’t you let me—can’t I be of any assistance?” He was obviously in earnest. ‘Knowed it the instant I set eyes on her. Somewhere you may stumble upon a clew to his identity.
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