” “I suppose,” said Constance, stencilling away at bright pink petals, “it’s our lot. 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. He smiled. Just me and another girl named Krista who turned eighteen and left right about when I got there. She was dressed as English girls do dress for town, without either coquetry or harshness: her collarless blouse confessed a pretty neck, her eyes were bright and steady, and her dark hair waved loosely and graciously over her ears. When Mr. Don’t take my word for it though.
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