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. “All your dreadful scientific things?” he said, with a smile that Miss Klegg thought extraordinarily kindly. Something or other—she did not catch what—he was damned if he could stand. Fast. “For your own sake, let me beg of you not to stay for a moment. Also he is ugly.
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