In a few seconds, the shutter flew open,—then the window,—and they were in the room. 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. The oranges were of the Syrian variety, small but filled with scarlet honey. “Really, Vee, you seem to have advertised our relations pretty generally!” “They—they knew, of course.
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