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. She saw her life before her robbed of all generous illusions, the wrappered life unwrappered forever, vistas of dull responses, crises of makebelieve, years of exacting mutual disregard in a misty garden of fine sentiments. I stole away and walked to the railway station. ‘No, I do not go back. If only to say goodbye. ’ ‘I’m hanged if I can make out either of you,’ complained Hilary. "You mistake,—you are mine.
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