"
Bidding farewell to his kind wife, and leaving many weeping
messages for her father, Sybil descended the stairs with the
inspector. The office was not opened: a couple of policemen
only were in the passage, and as she appeared one of them went
forth to clear the way for Sybil to the coach that was waiting
for her. A milkwoman or two, a stray chimney-sweep, a pieman
with his smoking apparatus, and several of those nameless
nothings that always congregate and make the nucleus of a mob-
-probably our young friends who had been passing the night in
Hyde Park--had already gathered round the office door. They
were dispersed, and returned again and took up their position
at a more respectful distance, abusing with many racy
execrations that ancient body that from a traditionary habit
they still called the New Police.
A man in a loose white great coat, his countenance concealed
by a shawl which was wound round his neck and by his slouched
hat, assisted Sybil into the coach, and pressed her hand at
the same time with great tenderness. Then he mounted the box
by the driver and ordered him to make the best of his way to
Smith's Square.
With a beating heart, Sybil leant back in the coach and
clasped her hands.
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