Here was the corner-stone of a capital story; but he knew that Howard Spurlock would never write it. ‘What’s more, I wouldn’t blame her. They were so good to me. Ramage!” she began, and his mouth sealed hers and his breath was mixed with her breath. Immediately beneath her lay Willesden,—the most charming and secluded village in the neighbourhood of the metropolis—with its scattered farm-houses, its noble granges, and its old grey church-tower just peeping above a grove of rook-haunted trees. A corner could hold the promise of a shelf of dainty crystals, volcanic ices of rainbow colors, or figurines of saints sculpted from horn and bone reenacting their martyrdoms on delicate miniature wooden stages. She led him up the long hall solemnly. The kiss was powerfully moving.
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