It is the bottom of the cup, where all the dregs appear to settle. 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. Nor had Jack been idle all this time. There were white men with families, a fine mission-house, and a club-house for cards and billiards. He was a tall man and fair, with bluish eyes that were rather protuberant, and long white hands of which he made a display. "He's a base, deceitful, tyrannical, hoary-headed libertine—that's what he is. Come along, you mad jade.
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