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. But Blueskin found it impossible to make off,—at least with the spoil,—Mrs. Thus, all her interest in life began to centre upon the patient, who was apparently quite as anchorless as she was. No sterner head was ever beheld beneath the cowl of a monk, or the bonnet of an inquisitor. The unpleasant oily chill of fever overtook her body, and she watched in horror as Sebastian carried her to his bed on his shoulder like a sack of flour. “It is strange that we should have met Annabel,” she said.
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