Whatever happened she need never return to that possibility. Poor soul! she nearly died when she heard he had robbed his master; and it might have been well if she had done so, for she never afterwards recovered her reason. "The traps!" responded a bystander. Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. “What have I been all this time?” she asked herself, and answered, “Just stark egotism, crude assertion of Ann Veronica, without a modest rag of religion or discipline or respect for authority to cover me!” It seemed to her as though she had at last found the touchstone of conduct. Now, come along, gem'men, and I'll show you some precious sport. She cursed Satan and screamed at the heavens, praying to Mary frantically. He was perched on the very edge of the leather seat of the coach, his threecornered hat twisting nervously in his hands, and from time to time he passed a tongue over dry lips. “She must go her own way. And he hazarded a wink at the poet over the paper on which he was sketching.
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