He fixed it. “Here goes,” he said. 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. I hate children. “If I thought for a moment that there was any chance of a relapse, I should stop here and tell him the truth even now. We can’t afford to turn our women, our Madonnas, our Saint Catherines, our Mona Lisas, our goddesses and angels and fairy princesses, into a sort of man. “My sister,” she murmured, “is so independent.
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