Then he slapped his hand on his desk and looked up with the air of a man struck by a brilliant idea. Blackness was beginning to consume the cornfield. "Souls," she answered, drily. He beheld the grey tower of Willesden Church, embosomed in its grove of trees, now clothed, in all the glowing livery of autumn. Anyhow, it were me as got you down to the wetnurse.
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