Slowly, he drew back his head and looked into her face. “Neither you nor I, Nigel, are made of such stuff,” she answered. “Anna!” she repeated. 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. Do you have family that I should ask?” “Oh, Julian! No, my family is dead, lost.
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