" "Iss, missis," grinned the black. She saw its depraved eyes, but worse were the glittering teeth as it smiled. 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. She did not understand the note of hostility to men that ran through it all, the bitter vindictiveness that lit Miss Miniver’s cheeks and eyes, the sense of some at last insupportable wrong slowly accumulated. The Wastrel did not relish this. He added, ‘Also others, but I don’t recall them. She descended down the stairs of the house, sidestepping the refuse from bingedrinking teenagers that was strewn everywhere. "I don't quite understand the application. Quick, now. A bobbing lantern, crossing the bridge—for she had not drawn the curtain—attracted her attention.
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