Wood. “You cannot seriously believe,” he said, “that at the present moment I care a snap of the fingers whether I have any dinner or not. Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. The picture in her mind altered and she saw again the way Gerald had looked with consternation upon the bruises he had inflicted on her wrist. He righted a chair and sat in it, his face in his hands. He had no ideas about daughters. She isn't used to cities.
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