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. A door, it may be remembered, opened from Wild's dwelling into this yard. “Must be hard to find a decent violin teacher these days. Some have no males. "There!" she cried, laughing, "that'll teach you to lay hands upon me again. “No! My father. I wonder. He lowered her neck before her, and she noticed a bizarre urge to bite him rising from her mind like an itch. It appeared from what he said that he had been captured when asleep,—that his liquor had been drugged,—otherwise, he would never have allowed himself to be taken alive. “You mean to tell me” he said, “that you have a lover? While I have been keeping you! Yes—keeping you!” This view of life he hurled at her as if it were an offensive missile.
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