" "For whom, Sir?" inquired Charcam. Anna rummaged about in her dressingcase, and finally drew out a letter. ‘They’ve gone, miss,’ came the answer, muffled through the panel door. Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. And my word's law—with you, at least," she added, bestowing a cutting glance upon her husband. She drew it out with shaking fingers. She would be enduing this chap with attributes he did not possess, clothing him in fictional ruffles.
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