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 last of Jarvis’s harlots must have departed in a hurry, for she had apparently left a roomful of clothes. ‘Do that again,’ he said softly, ‘and I’ll make you sorry you ever came to England. Then, if you are bad to me, I can more easily blow off your head. In an instant, she turned on him. She was interested by the swearing of the witnesses. There one is! The same stuff still! One has a craving in one’s blood, a craving roused, cut off from its redeeming and guiding emotional side.
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