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 coach was also in attendance, at a little distance. She traveled through back yards and quiet side streets on her way home, careful to avoid the main thoroughfares, fraught as they were with people in cars who would recognize her person or notice her dress. Now, more than ever, it was time to start running. I did not want anything made smooth and easy for me. She pulled the trigger.
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