I want to get away—to go to London. Well-born, welleducated; those are the lads that pay in full. Do you think she does?” Ann Veronica picked among her salad with a judicial expression of face. She turned there, clasped her hands behind her back and put up her chin. 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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