Passing the old rectory, and still older church, with its reverend screen of trees, and slowly ascending a hill side, from whence he obtained enchanting peeps of the spire and college of Harrow, he reached the cluster of well-built houses which constitute the village of Neasdon. A ragged gray moustache drooped from the corners of his mouth and a ragged wisp of whisker hung from his chin. ‘But what in the world was she doing at Remenham House?’ ‘Your quickness is astounding, Lucy,’ Gerald told her admiringly. ‘Parbleu, how you make me talk!’ ‘Your secret is safe with me, I promise you,’ Gerald said reassuringly. He tired of his popcorn and placed it under his seat.
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