His eyes were bright, and his voice had in it an unaccustomed timbre. That would be myself, or if she lived, Mary’s daughter. Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. Once he had managed to stake his claim, she would have all to do to prove her identity and win it back. Even her memories of he who had frequented her life for the longest period of years were worn and fading. Beyond that everything was nebulous.
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