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. “Do you happen to know whether she is supposed to be here?” “Very likely indeed,” Captain Fred Meddoes answered, lighting a cigarette. He put down his hat and umbrella, rested his hands on his hips, and regarded Ann Veronica firmly. She longed to enjoy human food as he did. 8 or 1.
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