And Lady Trafford having been carried down stairs, and placed within it, the postboy drove off, at a rapid pace for Barnet. From time to time the man below would shout, and the boy would let the threads go with the snap of a harpist, only to recover them instantly. I wish I could get you to imitate Thames Darrell. “I do not think that he is quite dead. ” The truth prevailed. The postilion obeyed, and dashed off as hard as his horses could gallop along the beautiful road leading to Neasdon and Willesden, just as the serving-men made their appearance.
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