THIS, this glissade, would be damned scoundrelism. ’ ‘No, miss,’ cut in Kimble. ’ The dagger was in her hand. 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 distant suggestion of chalets and a glimpse of the road set them talking for a time of the world they had left behind.
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