The skies became brilliant; the dry monsoon was setting in. 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. The teacher droned on and on about the mournful funerary love of Romeo and Juliet, a tale she had long since tired of. The door crashed back against the wall inside and both men hurtled into the room, weapons at the ready—and stopped dead. She was so interested, and this was such a relief from the trudging anxiety of her search for work, that she went on for a whole week as if she was still living at home.
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