other in a perfect phrenzy of rage and defiance.
He reached the yard, and it vanished in a moment. Little Oliver Twist lay on his back on the pavement, with his shirt unbuttoned and his temples bathed with water; his face a deadly white, and a cold tremble convulsing his whole frame.
"Poor boy, poor boy!" said Mr. Brownlow, bending over him. "Call a coach, somebody, pray,—directly!"
A coach was obtained, and Oliver, having been carefully laid on one seat, the old gentleman got in and sat himself on the other.
"May I accompany you?" said the book-stall keeper, looking in.
"Bless me, yes, my dear friend," said Mr. Brownlow quickly. "I forgot you. Dear, dear! I have this unhappy book still. Jump in. Poor fellow! there 's no time to lose."
The book-stall keeper got into the coach, and away they drove.