You are you. 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. A florid-looking young woman rose up and accosted him eagerly. She had never been "My child" or "My dear"; always her name—Ruth. unless a copyright notice is included. ’ Gerald moved to the long sofa, dusted it with elaborate care with one of its cushions, and with a gesture invited her to sit down. He waved an arm and spoke with a peculiar resonance.
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