The knots and broken pale that made the garden-fence scalable, and gave access to the fields behind, were still to be traced. Cheveney strolled up, a pipe in his mouth. And in this fact lay his danger. She breathed into a cloth soaked in rose oil as Sebastian had prescribed, but the smell of roses mixed obscenely with the smell of death and decay, causing her to retch. Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. The lad looked alarmed.
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