He thought her only an orphan in search of her English relatives. 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. He smiled inwardly. ‘You’ll make shadows. You and I. Now I shall never hear it but what this evening will come pouring back over me. ‘That is a very English name.
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