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. We both understood that. As he entered the shop, a tall portly personage advanced to meet him, whom he at once recognised as the present proprietor. ‘Fiddle, Gerald. She laid her hand upon his arm. If he wished, he could even take this inheritance from her.
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