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. It was also cold, and dark, for there had been no time to light the lantern. My dear! we’ve had so many moments! I used to go over the times we’d had together, the things we’d said—like a rosary of beads. . The sun was rising, illuminating the trees in black as if they were drawn in ink.
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