Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. "Then, by Heaven! you are a dead man!" replied Jack, cocking a pistol, and pointing it deliberately at his head. Not a word was uttered by the assemblage; but a hush of expectation reigned throughout. He pulled on her shoulder, bringing her mouth to his in a kiss. But with the skill of a fencer he met the blow and broke it, seizing the wrist.
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