Spurlock mused over the previous night. " "A child!" thought Wood; it must be the fugitive Darrell. Activity in the hall intensified. A dreamy sense of content crept over him. I hate children. He is the kind of man who would much prefer a little dust in his eyes. It is not so. 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.
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