He was a little impressed by Ann Veronica’s metaphor of the string, which, indeed, she owed to Hetty Widgett. “There is some mystery about you both,” he exclaimed, with sudden earnestness. How long he continued thus he scarcely knew; but just before dawn, he managed to regain his legs, and, crawling up a bank, perceived he was within a quarter of a mile of Tottenham. “Dear me!” he said. She cried and sobbed in fits. Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. She seemed to assume that it must certainly be something she had said. Wild never was the associate of thieves. I was afraid of being talked about.
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