"Restore it," he cried, in an authoritative voice. Take, if you please, your own pistol. She twisted to meet him and folded into his embrace. Now I’ll tell you what I propose. He was almost frightening in silhouette, his hair uncontrollable under the best of circumstances, but that changed when you saw his face. Were it not for your voice, I don't think I should know you. He beheld the grey tower of Willesden Church, embosomed in its grove of trees, now clothed, in all the glowing livery of autumn.
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