For a while he threatened her. After what seemed like an eternity he turned right onto a dirt road that ended unceremoniously at a copse of leafless trees. “Please don’t,” she said. 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. Was the situation so desperate that he could not pack his best things? She had packed lightly, not wanting to weigh down the carriage they would travel in. “A bad thing for me when that legacy came. Old farmhouses loomed as they whizzed by, left behind in the gray like mourners.
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