At the back of her mind there seemed always one irrelevant qualifying spectator whose presence she sought to disregard. 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. She helped Jack to sit down, and dragged the jacket off him, lifting his shirt to expose the gash that had sliced across his side. The rainstorm, short-lived, began to subside. " "But not for me," growled Terence, in an under tone. “Did you—did you really think that they would take you for a Frenchman?” she exclaimed. ‘Danged if I ever hear the like,’ he repeated blankly. There are no funerals among the poor, only burials. If you’ll forgive my saying that, and implying what goes with it. " "And Thames Darrell would do anything for you, Jack," replied a blithe voice. Capes most trying.
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