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. "Enough's as good as a feast. I did it in self-defence. About noon, next day, he was able to move; and the gale having abated, he set out homewards with his little charge. ‘Seems quiet enough,’ observed the junior officer, his gaze raking the shuttered windows of the building’s grey stone frontage. If a cart were coming, or those labourers in the field had heard, escape was impossible. "You are all right?"—anxiously. Wood!—no," replied the turnkey. We never started out in any high-browed manner to scandalize and Shelleyfy.
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