Plote was sleeping or deaf. She took refuge in beating her pillow and inventing insulting epithets for herself. 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. And later they paddled in a boat above the mysterious deeps of the See, and peered down into the green-blues and the blue-greens together. “If you attempted such a thing it would be in order that I should smack you hard with the palm of my hand upon the cheek.
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