Her two sticks were bare and brown, her snugged canvas drab, her brasses dull, her anchor mottled with rust. 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. When I am angry, I can get very mean. Mr. Mentally but not physically competent. Good riddance to bad rubbish.
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