She listened, her suspicions confirmed. I had a sort of idea,” he went on, “that you were starting life all over again, and it seemed awfully plucky. “I don’t think she will,” she said. I don’t play anything. Immediately beneath her lay Willesden,—the most charming and secluded village in the neighbourhood of the metropolis—with its scattered farm-houses, its noble granges, and its old grey church-tower just peeping above a grove of rook-haunted trees. They stopped talking, except to each other.
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