“I don’t understand. A murmur ran through the assemblage, by several of whom Jack was recognised. He saw her young and graceful back as she descended from the carriage, severely ignoring him, and recalled a glimpse he had of her face, bright and serene, as his train ran out of Wimbledon. “Well,” he said, argumentatively, “it IS. The glass in the windows was broken—the roof unthatched—the walls dilapidated.
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