Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. The sky was cloudless, effulgent blue. Section 3. “And what on earth,” he said, “do you think the world is made of? Why do you think I have been doing things for you? The abstract pleasure of goodness? Are you one of the members of that great white sisterhood that takes and does not give? The good accepting woman! Do you really suppose a girl is entitled to live at free quarters on any man she meets without giving any return?” “I thought,” said Ann Veronica, “you were my friend. I could not dream of loving you. This is a plot entirely abominable, and I scorn to be part of it. Something has happened to change her marvellously, either that, or she wilfully deceived me and every one else in those days as to her real self.
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