“Dear friend,” she said, “do not magnify me into a physiological problem. “Does he ever ask about me?” She asked, feeling like a cuckolded old maid. From where had he come, and why? An author! To her he would be no less interesting because he was unsuccessful. 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. That would be him. I mean Miss Charvill no harm. “You have them both,” Anna answered.
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