"It won't do, widow," said he, drawing near her, while she shrank from his approach, "so you may spare your breath. 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. "'T is he!" he mentally ejaculated. She had prepared herself to meet violent protest, a recurrence of that burning glance. The lad had just barely jangled it, when hurrying footsteps could be heard inside. Sepulchre's. His commissions this day would not fill his metal pipe with one wad of tobacco.
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