” Ann Veronica thought. 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. “Perhaps one talks nonsense about a woman’s instinct,” she said. “Many nights I have thought of you, Anna. Then Courtlaw looked across at her with a white puzzled face. I should like to know how it is concerned with Sir John Ferringhall, and how my presence intervenes.
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