The thought caused him an odd kind of pang—of pity, naturally. 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. “Wow. I think that I am very fortunate to have it to sign. I ought to have seen—” “It doesn’t matter a rap—if you’re not disposed to resent the—the way I behaved. The house was invisible from the road, and yet enormous once within view.
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