He entered the driver’s side, not inserting the keys in the ignition. "You are my prisoner, Jack. The more haste, the worse speed—better the feet slip than the tongue. 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. Doctors constantly admonished and offered weak consolation that most would have been hurt much worse from the type of fall he took. "You hesitate—you are deceiving me. ” “By all means,” Brendon answered.
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