Having only seen him in the gloom of a dungeon, and loaded with fetters, Kneebone had not noticed this alteration: but he was now greatly struck by it. She finished the olive and looked up. She herself, and one other there, recognized the interposition of something akin to tragedy. Close upon this came another thought. “Of course I will,” he answered. 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. “And, you know, you’re altering us all. .
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