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. Suddenly she felt her wrist grasped by a strong hand. The inn was a military haunt. Her eyes noted it mercilessly. Her eyes were lit with smouldering passion. “And where,” he asked, “are my rivals?” “Deserters,” she answered, laughing. Please to release me.
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