Your laugh reminds me of—of——" "Whose, Sir?" demanded Jackson, becoming suddenly grave. "What is a sing-song girl?" she asked. 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. Gerald had been confident that the boy would not dream of disobeying an order thrown at him by a major of militia, but he guessed Jack might be wondering if he was about to be haled off to prison. They smelled good, but they no longer smelled like food. "I am coming to the point, Joan. People were passing in the street below.
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