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. The light touch of Ah Cum's hand upon her arm broke the thread of retrospective thought; and her gray eyes began to register again the things she saw. "Nobody composes any more, nobody paints, nobody writes—I mean, on a par with what we've just heard. ‘Yes, do,’ approved Lucilla. When he found himself thinking about it, it upset him so that he at once resorted to distraction.
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