At noon the doctor himself arrived. The continuity was frequently broken in upon by diversory suppositions. Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. The face of the man who lay there was clearly visible. “You know about my scandalous past?” “Very little. It isn’t sentiment but it’s horse sense. we’ll stop by the Amoco on Maple.
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