Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. Mr. Jack Kimble stiffened, looking at his interrogator with wary anger in his face. The windows were small, and strongly grated, looking, in front, on Kendrick Yard, and, at the back, upon the spacious burial-ground of Saint Giles's Church. He used to call it his fire-escape—ha! ha! I've often used the ladder for my own convenience, but I never expected to turn it to such good account. ’ ‘Your major will tell you nothing at all,’ put in the young lady acidly, ‘because certainly I am going to kill him.
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