‘Come, cry a truce. He beheld the grey tower of Willesden Church, embosomed in its grove of trees, now clothed, in all the glowing livery of autumn. This is a mere boy. Anyhow, he did not sentimentalize her. Here lay a heap of knockers of all sizes, from the huge lion's head to the small brass rapper: there, a collection of sign-boards, with the names and calling of the owners utterly obliterated. "Ay, ay," rejoined Sheppard; "he may do what he pleases,—hang me, if he thinks proper,—if you wish it. May I be permitted, as a very old and very dear friend of your lamented parent, whose loss I shall ever deplore, to ask you one question?" "Undoubtedly," replied Winifred. But if I painted her as I'd like to, the natives would instantly distrust me; and I'd have to build up confidence all over again.
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