‘She’s an eviltempered little termagant, yes, but there’s no malice aforethought. "Your son," replied Jack,—"your miserable, repentant son. She did not hear his approach, but continued her occupation without raising her head. Figg," replied Jack, smiling; "for, before I'm taken to Tyburn, I mean to borrow a shirt for the occasion from you. ‘No, let me guess,’ he interrupted. He glanced downwards at the impetuous torrent, which he could perceive shooting past him with lightning swiftness in the gloom. "I declare I'm all in a cold sweat. Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg.
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