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. "I believe he's gone," he said, returning to Jonathan. " "But what, in God's name, possessed you? You have already wrecked your own life and now you've wrecked hers. I wonder whether you would mind, Lady Ferringhall,” he went on, with a sudden glance at her, “if I tell you that you yourself remind me a great deal more of what she was like then, except of course that your complexion and colouring are altogether different. She is like some character out of Phra the Phoenician: she's been buried for thirty years and just been excavated.
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