‘That’s what started the fracas,’ Gerald admitted ruefully, nursing his injured hand as he recalled it. “Where am I?” he muttered. 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 is nobody, then?" "Oh, there is an aunt. Her sense of humour could not wholly resist his abnormal gravity. " "You have extradition papers?" "What sort of a detective do you think I am?" countered O'Higgins. They’re just a joyous softening of the outline—more beautiful than perfection.
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