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. But with returning breath came returning vociferations; and the carpenter, with a faint hope of lessening the clamour by change of scene, took up his lantern, opened the door, and walked out. ‘This from a man who calls himself my friend. . A sob was strangled in her throat. He made the universe on those lines. Not a bark could be discerned on the river, except those already mentioned.
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