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He beheld the grey tower of Willesden Church, embosomed in its grove of trees, now clothed, in all the glowing livery of autumn. “Well,” she said, “good-night, father. ‘If you are not going to visit Charvill today, I’ll escort you back to the convent in Golden Square. Directly in range stood the strange young man, although he was at the far side of the loft.
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