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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. “I won’t have you quarrelling and crying in the Avenue,” he said. She offers me no explanation, permits me absolutely no hope. Some part of the stiff vigour of the man seemed to have subsided. The telegram dispatched, his obligation cancelled, Ah Cum proceeded homeward, chuckling occasionally. She clasped her hands over her mouth in a silent scream. A glance down the passage—to see that Roding was not lurking?—and her face came back to Gerald, triumph in her eyes.
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