The performance over, he relaxed and closed his eyes. "He will be murdered!—Help!" "My child!—my love!" cried Wood, dragging her forcibly back. “My brother’s room when he comes home. Besides, I do not want a price on my head. His face was wreathed in smiles, his beringed hand was cordially outstretched. 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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