At no loss to comprehend that Jack was the individual pointed out by these outcries, two of the nearest of the group made a dash at him. “Perhaps one talks nonsense about a woman’s instinct,” she said. 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 young man —almost a boy, slight, dark, and with his brother’s deep grey eyes—came across the room to her. ‘Come,’ she called.
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