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. These joyful bounds just lace into the stuff of my memories and stay there forever. A creeping numbness invaded her. It was the first—and the last! At this juncture, the handle of the door was tried, and the voice of Mr. John’s father added cheerfully, “So, do you play any violin?” She balked at the stereotype, but admitted, “Yes, I play violin. ’ ‘How exciting. “I have not the least idea who he is.
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