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. The manager tells me that you are an American. Come, come, be reasonable, and listen to me. He glanced out of the window, looked back at the major and grasped the handle of the door. A pity you did not think to tell me that part of the tale at the outset. Then to the Feathers, in Drury Lane.
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