Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. The thought did not occur to her, for all thought had flown out of her head. They don’t catch on to discursive interests, you see, because they are more serious, they are concentrated on the central reality of life, and a little impatient of its—its outer aspects. . The steps, even the pavements, were invaded by little knots of loungers driven outside by the unusual heat of the evening, most of them in evening dress, or what passed for evening dress in Montague Street. She took some shirts, underwear, shoes, a duffel bag, and his wallet to make it look like he had gone a-traveling. “Not much,” he answered, “and yet about all there is to be known, I fancy. Well, they’d got to the pheasants, and in a little while he would smoke.
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