’ ‘But what have I done?’ protested Gerald innocently. The thought caused him an odd kind of pang—of pity, naturally. I thank God for the very skin that is peeling from your nose, for all things great and small that make us what we are. 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 hasn't found himself, as they say. .
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