The manager stared at the empty doorway for a space, shrugged, and returned to his ledgers. 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. A short way off in the fields he descried a sort of shed or cow-house, and thither he contrived to drag his weary limbs. I have brought disgrace upon you, and I haven’t been the right sort of wife at all. She put a hand to the lad’s cold cheek and choked on a sob. He stood there, large and dark, enunciating, in his clear voice from beneath his large mustache, clear flat sentences, deliberately kindly. The washerwoman reported that she had seen a man one day riding out for an early morning hunt, but was unsure of his identity. It’s best.
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