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. She remembered him as a dull figure, a big man with a belly that was already showing fat under his fine scarlet clothes. She had to do her thinking at home—under inspection. The tourist season would soon be at ebb, and it would be late in September before the tide returned. That is what I’ve had on my conscience.
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