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. “How could it not have hurt?” His analytical side started putting in overtime. Edgeworth Bess and Poll Maggot are dying to see you. The arrangement had been made by the town matchmaker, a frightening old oak of a man. "The warrant for his execution is arrived. Keeping to the shadow of the house, he crept forward until he could see better without, he hoped, being seen.
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