God had never answered any of her prayers. “Martin, you realize that I’m dating someone, don’t you?” She knew his reply before he uttered it. “I know that our social order is dreadful enough,” he said, “and sacrifices all that is best and most beautiful in life. Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. Years ago I marked out an intinerary for myself; but the trip never materialized. She had unaccountable gleams of sympathy with and liking for him. She fell into another slumber, one which was more like a blackout. Turning off again on the left, down Seacoal Lane, they arrived at the mouth of a dark, narrow alley, into which they plunged; and, at the farther extremity found a small yard, overlooked by the blank walls of a large gloomy habitation.
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