The girl was like some north-country woodland pool, penetrated by a single shaft of sunlight—beautifully clear in one spot and mysteriously obscured elsewhere. . " "Who are you?" ejaculated Trenchard, scarcely able to credit his senses. The postilion obeyed, and dashed off as hard as his horses could gallop along the beautiful road leading to Neasdon and Willesden, just as the serving-men made their appearance. Give me your staff. Shall we say at half-past seven?” She rose from her chair. It’s gone.
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