The driver asked if I would like the window closed, but I would sooner face a tiger than drive through London in a boxed-up hansom, so I refused.

The middle of the road, you know, has a long line of waiting cabs, broken by occasional crossing-places.

The horse was just getting into a trot when a man, wrapped in a mackintosh, ran alongside, caught the off rein in the crook of his stick, swung the poor beast right round through one of the gaps in the rank, and down we went--horse, cab, driver, and myself--in front of a brewer's dray.

Luckily for me and the driver, we were flung right over the smash into the gutter, for the big, heavy van ran into the fallen hansom, crushed it like a matchbox, and killed the horse.

Had the window been closed--well, it wasn't, so there is no need for romancing." Poor Nellie clung to her lover as if to assure herself that he was really uninjured.
"Did you see your assailant clearly ?" "Unfortunately, no.