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. It was high afternoon, there was no great throng of footpassengers, and many an eye from omnibus and pavement rested gratefully on her fresh, trim presence as she passed young and erect, with the light of determination shining through the quiet self-possession of her face. All he will say is that she said so—as if anyone could believe a word the girl said. Ennison listened, and he forgot where he was. ‘Can you not open it?’ she cried. “Yes.
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