D'ye hear. Why had he kissed her? What had led him into that? Neither love nor passion— utter blankness so far as reducing the act to terms. Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. By the time he had reached the summit of this hill, he had lost all trace of them; and the ardour of the chase having in some measure subsided, he began to reproach himself for his folly, in having wandered—as he conceived—so far out of his course. He was yellow and coarse of hair; flea-bitten, too; and even as he smiled at Ruth and wagged his stumpy tail, he was forced to turn savagely upon one of these disturbers who had no sense of the fitness of things. ‘That will be a matter for her future husband to decide. And since then, he has openly avowed his determination of cutting his master's throat on the slightest inkling of treachery.
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