They made a stratum into which Ann Veronica was now plunged up to her neck; it had become her stratum. Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. It is not for myself I fear. There are no funerals among the poor, only burials. ‘Ain’t enough as my bed is took, my sheets all bloodied, and my gin took for to waste on that fellow’s wound. One of those hanging moments ensued— hypnotic.
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