I don’t want you to be sad. 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. A remittance man. Like carpenter, like chips. The only departure which he made from the fashion of the period, was in respect to the peruke—an article he could never be induced to wear.
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