‘I think that was what began his downfall. At least I can’t talk to them. Gay, the poet, who wrote the 'Captives,' which was lately acted at Drury Lane, and was so much admired by the Princess of Wales. Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. "Restore it," he cried, in an authoritative voice. A black silk furbelowed scarf covered her shoulders; and over the kincob gown hung a yellow satin apron, trimmed with white Persian. ’ She turned, her eyes narrowed. \"The servants will hear you!\" \"I don't care! Why do you?” She cried.
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