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. '" "Slave?" echoed Jack. “Why can’t you tell people that you are what you are? Why all the secrecy?” She looked beyond the farmhouse. To walk beside him, dressed akin to him, rucksacked and companionable, was bliss in itself; each step she took was like stepping once more across the threshold of heaven.
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