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. Marriage! … without the least conception of the physical and moral responsibilities! It's a crime, Mac!" "But what can you do?" McClintock turned to the manager. Gosse had moved forward, his pistol arm out straight, his aim true, the gun cocked. It was a refusal of expediency, he said, and not an absolute refusal.
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