I was the only passenger who got out there, and there was no one upon the platform save a single sleepy porter with a lantern.
The passenger turned his face away, at the same time putting out his two fingers and crossing himself.
Whenever the leader made this rattle, the passenger started, as a nervous passenger might, and was disturbed in mind.
The passenger booked by this history, was on the coach-step, getting in; the two other passengers were close behind him, and about to follow.
Our booked passenger showed in a moment that it was his name.
The figures of a horse and rider came slowly through the eddying mist, and came to the side of the mail, where the passenger stood.
The rider stooped, and, casting up his eyes at the guard, handed the passenger a small folded paper.
With those words the passenger opened the coach-door and got in; not at all assisted by his fellow-passengers, who had expeditiously secreted their watches and purses in their boots, and were now making a general pretence of being asleep.
Then the strong-rooms underground, at Tellson’s, with such of their valuable stores and secrets as were known to the passenger (and it was not a little that he knew about them), opened before him, and he went in among them with the great keys and the feebly-burning candle, and found them safe, and strong, and sound, and still, just as he had last seen them.
A hundred times the dozing passenger inquired of this spectre: “Buried how long?”