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 fire—if there was any in him—never made headway against this insistant demand to know the significance of these manifold inward agitations. Your old rooms are there, if you choose. He got up brusquely. The whole place had come to life, the magic seeped out of the walls. I am sorry, but you have spoilt me. Gosse had moved forward, his pistol arm out straight, his aim true, the gun cocked. I've come all these miles for this young fellow; but I don't cotton to the idea of lallygagging four weeks in this burg.
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