And then all her restlessness was turned to joy. Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. ‘But this is not to my blame, grandpére. He was a square-faced man of nearly fifty, with iron-gray hair a mobile, cleanshaven mouth and rather protuberant black eyes that now scrutinized Ann Veronica. Sheppard, averting her face to hide her tears. But how long would she last, withering away to a desiccated pile of skin and bone? Round and round she would go. "General inspection after lunch; drying bins, stores and the young palms south-east. Perhaps the boys had already faced off and he had missed it, he thought sourly. I was the last on board. "Yes. A few feet away, across the low vases of pink and white roses, sat Annabel, more beautiful to-night perhaps than ever before in her life.
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