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Anna’s face was half turned from him, but her expression, and the tone of her monosyllable puzzled him. Bowing to the stranger, the woollen-draper very politely requested to know his business. Her aunt was a long time before she answered. 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. “But why,” he said in the gasping voice of one subduing an agony, and looked at her from under a pain-wrinkled brow, “why did you not tell me this before?” “I didn’t know—I thought I might be able to control myself. It is a plain case of alcoholic stupor.
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This video was uploaded to waterscolumns.info on 25-09-2024 15:08:00