He beheld the grey tower of Willesden Church, embosomed in its grove of trees, now clothed, in all the glowing livery of autumn. Conscience drove him to this side of the world, to this bed. Spurling and Marvel rose too. She turned out the electric light and gained the hall. They’ll face facts as facts, and understand. “He does not come here,” she exclaimed, quickly. Only I wish that it did not remind one so much of a second-hand clothes shop. Her heart thudded.
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