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. ” “I suppose,” said Constance, stencilling away at bright pink petals, “it’s our lot. He breathed a little sigh of satisfaction. Swinging her arm in an arc, she let go of the foil and it flew across the chapel towards the main door, crashing down between the pews, and clattering onto the floor. If only Gerald would come. “Sufficient unto me is the change thereof,” he said, with all the effect of an epigram. Perhaps it was the recollection of those happy days.
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