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. White gasped, and then stiffened. They did not care— servant or master, it meant nothing. Some indeed carried themselves, dressed themselves even, rather as foreign visitors from the land of “Looking Backward” and “News from Nowhere” than as the indigenous Londoners they were. But once he had steered the lady down the hall and along a passage to a window seat at the end, he abandoned the subject of society. I don’t want you to be sad. I’m glad 237 you came over. "He must be somewhere hereabouts," cried one of the horsemen, dismounting. He was instantly overpowered, and stretched upon the ground.
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