His hug became an embrace. “I do. “Stuffy these trees make the Avenue,” said Mr. "She's glorious!" He knew that he must hoodwink this keeneyed Scot, even as he must hoodwink everybody: publicly, the devoted husband; privately, the celibate. He beheld the grey tower of Willesden Church, embosomed in its grove of trees, now clothed, in all the glowing livery of autumn. She pocketed the sum total of his ready cash, about fortyeight dollars. The body of the edifice stood on the south side of Newgate Street, and projected at the western extremity far into the area opposite Saint Sepulchre's Church. I do not wish that the soldiers there will see it shine.
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