She fell with a plop onto her rear end in the mud and sat dumbly like a statue, water eddying around her. He laid down the knife, and fixed a searching and distrustful gaze upon the writer, who continued his task, unconscious of anything having happened. He beheld the grey tower of Willesden Church, embosomed in its grove of trees, now clothed, in all the glowing livery of autumn. “I can’t conceive what you want.
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