Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. Having no means of defence, Sir Rowland cleared the blood from his vision; and, turning to see whether there was any means of escape, he descried the open door behind him leading to the Well Hole, and instantly darted through it. ‘You would like? And do you imagine that I will tell you?’ ‘Won’t you?’ ‘No, a thousand times. When I drink blood, I. . . “How are you?” He asked, realizing she was unnerved by the very sound of his voice. She heard her husband’s heavy tread descending the stairs, and the wheels of his carriage as he drove off.
Video ID: TW96aWxsYS81LjAgQXBwbGVXZWJLaXQvNTM3LjM2IChLSFRNTCwgbGlrZSBHZWNrbzsgY29tcGF0aWJsZTsgQ2xhdWRlQm90LzEuMDsgK2NsYXVkZWJvdEBhbnRocm9waWMuY29tKSAtIDMuMTQyLjE3My4zNyAtIDA5LTA3LTIwMjQgMTQ6MDE6MjYgLSAxNjMxMDYyOTAw
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