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. ’ ‘Gammon!’ burst from the captain, who had just tossed off a glass of Madeira. Give me your hand. In concealing himself behind the timber, Mr. The sun was all but gone now, the horizon a deep shade of purple. Then the incredible happened.
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