He beheld the grey tower of Willesden Church, embosomed in its grove of trees, now clothed, in all the glowing livery of autumn. ‘Gammon. “Can’t stop, thanks,” he answered. " "The very idea is dreadful," whimpered Edgeworth Bess. ” “Perhaps,” she said, “I am superstitious. He will have it that I’ve taken leave of my senses. “You are very good,” she said. And yet, often when alone, he wondered: had McClintock been wrong, or had she ceased to care in that way? The possibility that she no longer cared should have filled him with unalloyed happiness, whereas it depressed him, cut the natural vanity of youth into shreds and tatters. As he stood upon the bridge, he held down the light, and looked into the profound abyss. ‘I assure you it suits her as Mary would not.
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