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. The latter took from his pocket a small note-book and pencil. Mike knocked on the door. That was supposed to be Madame Valade. “Why not? It might amuse me. Sheppard. “There’s twenty before you, and Mr. Bird and have come hither.
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