He recoiled from the sting. “A move of any sort would certainly be fatal. At once. 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. And they’ll shut the gates presently. A Hand that strove to reach his shoulder, relentless, soulless but lawful.
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