“Well?” “You and all the rest of them are always lamenting that I do not marry. You will observe that a coronet is embroidered on it. 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. In the midst of them there was a cart with a man in it—and that man was Jack—my son Jack—they were going to hang him. ‘Oh, dearie me, I wish I’d never told you anything about it,’ lamented the nun, moving to the only chair the vestry possessed and sinking down into it.
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