“And we will sail that splendor wide, From day to day together, From isle to isle of happiness Through year’s of God’s own weather. What do you say to Brighton——” Anna looked at him quietly—and he never finished his sentence. 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.
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