She was lovely, painted like the porcelain doll he had always wanted her to be. All the world about her seemed to be—how can one put it?—in wrappers, like a house when people leave it in the summer. She had slept badly at first in a long chair next to the fire waiting for him to return, but caught on after that. “You go home and think of all this,” he said, “and talk about it to-morrow. 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. "You are all right?"—anxiously.
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