The girl was like some north-country woodland pool, penetrated by a single shaft of sunlight—beautifully clear in one spot and mysteriously obscured elsewhere. "Whist!" exclaimed Terence; "he elevates his glim. You go cheer him up. ‘Well, if that’s what the good Lord wants, then you’ll just have to accept it. 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.
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