He beheld the grey tower of Willesden Church, embosomed in its grove of trees, now clothed, in all the glowing livery of autumn. CHAPTER XIII. It seemed to him that a sort of mist had risen up between them. ” “Pretty name. The woman shrugged her shoulders. There was a sharp knocking at the outside door. She wanted to live. This was no night for the indulgence of dreamy musing. ‘Parbleu,’ she uttered indignantly. ‘He don’t mean you no harm. . And she buried herself beneath the straw, which she tossed above her head with the wildest gestures.
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