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I swore I would bring your husband to the gallows,—would plunge you in such want, such distress, that you should have no alternative but the last frightful resource of misery,—and I also swore, that if you had a son he should share the same fate as his father. Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. It 163 invariably leads to trouble. The turnkey looked round the next moment, but the manoeuvre escaped his observation. Maggot, dealing him a buffet that sent him reeling several yards backwards. ’ The lady hesitated a moment, her eyes seeming to measure the distance between where he stood and the door.

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