It is not that I thought any the less, or any the less warmly, of Flora.

But, as I smoked a grim segar that morning in a corner of the chaise, no doubt I considered, in the first place, that the letter-post had been invented, and admitted privately to myself, in the second, that it would have been highly possible to write her on a piece of paper, seal it, and send it skimming by the mail, instead of going personally into these egregious dangers, and through a country that I beheld crowded with gibbets and Bow Street officers.

As for Sim and Candlish, I doubt if they crossed my mind.
At the Green Dragon Rowley was waiting on the doorsteps with the luggage, and really was bursting with unpalatable conversation.
'Who do you think we've 'ad 'ere, sir ?' he began breathlessly, as the chaise drove off.

'Red Breasts'; and he nodded his head portentously.
'Red Breasts ?' I repeated, for I stupidly did not understand at the moment an expression I had often heard.
'Ah!' said he.

'Red weskits.