To begin with, he struck her as being the most variable person she had ever encountered. ‘Eh bien, pig. Her cheeks were the colour of chalk, her eyes were filled with terror. Immediately beneath her lay Willesden,—the most charming and secluded village in the neighbourhood of the metropolis—with its scattered farm-houses, its noble granges, and its old grey church-tower just peeping above a grove of rook-haunted trees. Ice had begun to form in the shallows. The watcher's intake of breath was sibilant.
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