That is what stands between us, if you would know—that. 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 took her hand and looked into her eyes and spoke, divided against himself, in a voice that was forced and insincere. You seem to want this chap out of Canton. She had found a couple of articles about him over the years, blurbs about the opening of a theater that mentioned him. You come to England, and hide in a secret convent in London.
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