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. “I do not know what you mean,” he said, “but if you are referring to any little coolness since our marriage let us never speak of it again. She stared down at them from a high window, peering down at their moonlit faces in the bed heavy with furs, the same bed where she had given birth to Gianfrancesco’s dead son.
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