Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. She fell with a plop onto her rear end in the mud and sat dumbly like a statue, water eddying around her. That Mr. Not us. ‘Up, Jacques, up,’ she ordered. Her senses were prickled when she felt a new pair of eyes upon her. Not with the unavoidable explanations, and the need to secrete the sword and hide it before returning the priest’s horse to its stable—which had been her excuse for running from Martha’s protestations.
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