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. Her face reminded him of a delicate unglazed porcelain cup, filled with blond wine. “How I am to earn enough sous for my dinner to-morrow—or failing that, what I can sell. That Frenchie, that’s who she is. There would be no mercy in this man. The proceedings of this faction were narrowly watched by a vigilant and sagacious administration.
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