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. And neither had any of that theatricality which demands gestures and facial expression. Perceiving he was about to take leave, Kneebone ventured to ask whom he had had the honour of addressing. It feels like too much gold-dust clutched in one’s hand. "But it wants something here. And this great mellow place, this London, now was hers, to struggle with, to go where she pleased in, to overcome and live in. "I cannot—dare not injure him," rejoined Trenchard, with a haggard look, and sinking, as if paralysed, into a chair. You don’t deserve it, but he does. " "And all the time you loved her?"—appalled.
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