He beheld the grey tower of Willesden Church, embosomed in its grove of trees, now clothed, in all the glowing livery of autumn. “Please forgive me, Lucy. "Vell, vell," growled Sharples, after he had listened to the other's remonstrances, "it shall be done. Her hair, once red, faded to a thin gray that she kept cut into a practical short bob.
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