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. “Annabel at last,” he shouted. “Hello? She’s like, your girlfriend, not mine. I’ll give you, say, thirty-five guineas a week clear of expenses, and half of anything you earn above the two turns a night.
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