Anna did not pause, but she looked over her shoulder with slightly lifted eyebrows. “It’s all dirt that washes off, dear, but it’s dirt. 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. It seems to me just talk; it seems to me like the fancy of a dream.
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