” She stepped into the curtains as Martin stared daggers. She crawled underneath the soft white sheets, reclining and pulling the blankets up to her chin. 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. On reflection, it occurred to him that he might, perhaps, be able to loosen the iron fillet; a notion no sooner conceived than executed.
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