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. She pushed him gently on the chest. “I don’t see what he has to do with my coming to London?” “He—he worships the ground you tread on. Her voice was soft and singularly musical; but from time to time she uttered old-fashioned words which forced him to grope mentally. ‘You mean that his missus is pretending to be my mistress? Lord-a-mercy!’ ‘Precisely. The blouse dried nicely, it would only need a touch of starch and a little ironing. I never even burrowed down into the trunk.
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