" "Nothing," echoed Wood furiously. That I should be challenged by you of all people. I trust that no unpleasant rumours will be circulated before the election, at any rate. You're a queer lad. ” She commanded. 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. A jar of pink roses upon a tiny table seemed to gain an extra delicacy of colour from the sombre curtains behind.
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