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 in reality even that magic garden-close resolves itself into a villa at Morningside Park and my father being more and more cross and overbearing at meals—and a general feeling of insecurity and futility. The skipper obeyed, and in another moment, they swept through the narrow lock. To be no longer with Martha was strange. No further responsibility whatever. He had but to give his orders. There was only one clean spot in the picture—the ship's wash (all white) that fluttered on a line stretched between the two masts.
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