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. ‘André? Que dit-il?’ ‘My wife does not understand,’ said the fellow, frowning deeply. She made a few protests, a few excuses for her action in accepting him, a few lame explanations, but he did not heed them or care for them. You'll do.
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