“It’s because I mean to send it back altogether,” she said. Somewhere she had read that it was the proper thing to do and that men liked to be alone with their tobacco. 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. In the second, she was wretchedly poor, and assailed by temptations of which you can form no idea.
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