Passing the old rectory, and still older church, with its reverend screen of trees, and slowly ascending a hill side, from whence he obtained enchanting peeps of the spire and college of Harrow, he reached the cluster of well-built houses which constitute the village of Neasdon. "Speak plainly. His grey eyes burned under his shaggy eyebrows. The latch came with a weak click. Am I quite hidden?" "Not quite;—keep your feet in. ” The idea struck him as novel. ‘Good, good—and not before time,’ muttered Roding, glancing round again.
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