“I have stood it for a month, Anna,” he exclaimed. Her aunt was making herself cuffs out of little slips of insertion under the newly lit lamp. On the right, stood a bulky figure, with a broken rattle hanging out of his great-coat pocket, who held up a lantern to his battered countenance to prove to the spectators that both his orbs of vision were darkened: on the left, a meagre constable had divested himself of his shirt, to bind up with greater convenience a gaping cut in the arm. Gashes on his arms were already beginning to heal and disappear. 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. Me, I prefer to forget that I have such a father. “Cheveney!” she repeated.
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