The deafening report froze time. 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. Oh, what’s his name? It’s on the tip of my tongue. ‘If you did not want me to talk of it,’ she told him with characteristic insouciance, ‘you should not have mentioned the matter to me. He paused at the bamboo curtain of her room, which was in semi-darkness. Sheppard, so that if the blow had been stricken she must have received it. He even hugged her a few times, something he had never done. Doesn’t matter a bit to me.
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