At the corner of Liquorpond Street stood the old Hampstead coach-office; and, on the night in question, a knot of hostlers, waggoners, drivers, and stable-boys was collected in the yard. ‘Well?’ he uttered between heavy breaths. There were shadows under his eyes. Ann Veronica decided that “hoydenish ragger” was the only phrase to express her. "Because it's not like you," was her answer. Once before—but that had been different. "He can't get out.
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