It is not well that a daughter should talk to her father as Ruth talked to hers that day. He climbed on top of her, pressing her into the couch cushions, the gown billowing around them like a cotton candy parachute. 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 man’s statement was explicit, and spoken with confidence. I was grateful. She stepped into his arms.
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