His hat was placed upon one pole, his wig on another. Her companion was a person of no inferior condition. He reappeared in street clothes, his cropped hair not even damp from the shower, fresh-faced and sweetsmelling. "The part was crooked," she explained. Glad to get back, I’m sure,” he said briskly. “I don’t know. Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. ” “Is this a fair sample of the dinner?” Anna asked, who had the healthy appetite of a strong young woman. He breathed heavily, as though he had been running. “John! Welcome! Happy Thanksgiving!” Cathy cried, ushering him deeper into the house.
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