“And what is it all about, Veronica?” he asked, with a deliberate note of irony, looking at her a little quizzically over his glasses. “There is this absurd craving for Mr. 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. Clotilde rushed out of the house, carrying her boy and tugging her girl by the ear. .
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