There were cakes and sandwiches—for Ennison a sort of Elysian feast, long to be remembered. Spurlock to keep to the bungalow until the rogue goes back to Copeley's. Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples, for I am sick of love. 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. Home!— which I never hoped to see again. Spurlock slumped in his chair, weak and empty. And now— I suppose I should be considered too old.
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