" "O Heavens!" screamed Winifred, while her father lifted up his hands in silent horror. 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. Reverse psychology or something, it’s like she was trying to draw him nearer by pushing him away. " "Hold your tongue, sirrah," rejoined Shotbolt, not over-pleased by the remark, "and mind what I tell you. Imbecile.
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