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. "I've said it," rejoined Jonathan, peremptorily. The act was mechanical, a bit of sparring for time: his anger was searching about for a new vent. But I have remembered the horse and have asked this sergeant that a soldier fetch him.
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