‘You!’ ‘Yes, it is I, mademoiselle,’ he continued in his own tongue. Even that he was an interfering person, if he walked through that door this moment, she would fling herself at him and weep all over his chest. 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. There was the cottage she had inhabited for so many years,—in those fields she had rambled,—at that church she had prayed. This was not the sort of confession which he had been expecting.
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