Ennison,” she said, letting her fingers rest in his. He beheld the grey tower of Willesden Church, embosomed in its grove of trees, now clothed, in all the glowing livery of autumn. The eminent painter had handsome, expressive features, an aquiline nose, and a good deal of dignity in his manner. “If one half of the stories about Meysey Hill are true,” he answered, “I would not stretch out my little finger to save his life.
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