She was slowed down by the icy wind that punctuated itself in screams around houses and trees. Certainly, there wasn't a thing in the pockets. He upset some one —probably Mr. Manning think?” said her aunt. Her eyes were fixed upon the ground, the pink colour coming and going in her cheeks was very delicate and girlish. But she was relentless. She realized in a moment what had happened. "What motive have you for concealment?" he demanded. 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. She looked, Dorothée said, just as she always looks.
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