She raised this with the air of a conspirator unmasking, and displayed a tear-flushed face. "I understand," she said. " "Where?" "At Yale. Wood, popping her head through the window. 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.
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