Play fair with her. She was at the end of girlhood and on the eve of a woman’s crowning experience. John knew better. It was rude and disrespectful to raise her eyes to him, her mother had warned. 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. After all, what did it matter?—it or anything else in the world? She was within reach of his arms, beautiful, compelling, herself as it seemed suddenly conscious of the light which was burning in his eyes. “I’m inclined to think, Stanley, myself that as a matter of fact it was the expurgated Romeo and Juliet did the mischief. Feel for the lock, and prize it open,—you don't need to be told how. The militia were in already.
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