"Take off these chains, Rowland," said Lady Trafford, "instantly, I command you. Perhaps I may borrow yours one day?’ ‘Lucilla, you wretch,’ burst from the captain. 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. Sc. My death, probably.
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