Making her couch upon a heap of hay, she sank at once into a deep and refreshing slumber. 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. “To begin with, I was—I was in the divorce court. F. “But I am sorry,” she exclaimed. She regarded him coldly, as though wondering whether he had anything further to say.
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