What reassured her, however, more than anything else, was the shape of the mouth: it was warmly turned. 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. ‘You mean that his missus is pretending to be my mistress? Lord-a-mercy!’ ‘Precisely. "I am, Charcoal. ” “And you?” “Rather!” “I wonder why?” “There’s no why. “I have given it up,” she answered.
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