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. His legs were fine and strong, he told her that he had been a warrior in ancient times, to which she snorted in disgust. You make me angry, and I lie. ‘A spitfire, ain’t she, sir?’ Roding ignored this. And Miss Miniver began to sway her. They pressed more insistently, forcing her lips open. At last she glanced at a little clock in the corner of the room, and sprang to her feet. So it was with Gosse, who had wanted to marry her.
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