On the mantelpiece in front of her was a note addressed to her in Annabel’s handwriting. Besides, you've secrets which must not be disclosed. I suppose this is the sort of damned rubbish—” “Oh! Ssh, Peter!” cried Miss Stanley. ’ ‘Nothing of the sort,’ Gerald said calmly, sipping at his burgundy. Your name. Somewhere you may stumble upon a clew to his identity. He beheld the grey tower of Willesden Church, embosomed in its grove of trees, now clothed, in all the glowing livery of autumn. He then unfolded his choice and held it before her face. The woollen-draper looked at his watch. Cathy chimed. The mother was far more real to her than the father; the ghostly far more substantial than the living form.
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