"Your answer, gem'men?" demanded Sharples. He had been ill; no matter about that: he recollected every thought that had led up to it and every act that had consummated the deed. Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. She had never expected John capable of saying such things, of thinking such macabre ideas. "What ho!" he cried slapping Smith, who had fallen asleep with the brandybottle in his grasp, upon the shoulder.
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