These were his mistresses, Poll Maggot and Edgeworth Bess. 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. There was a tearing sound as the canvas gave way, and the precious portrait ripped apart as the top of the Frenchman’s head came through it. ‘She? Sa femme? That is the game then? That she could dare to take my place, that salope.
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