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. "I'll be his evil genius!" vociferated Jonathan, who seemed to enjoy her torture. More than this, it would serve to mitigate her own abysmal loneliness to pool it temporarily with his. She would marry him.
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