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. If my conjectures are right, this boy would stay there indefinitely. But no more of that. Besides—there is Sir John. ” She smiled, sure of herself beyond any pretending, into his troubled eyes. It was the gallows. There isn’t a husband breathing, Annabel, who wouldn’t have blessed that pistol in your hands, and prayed God that the bullet might go straight.
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