Steeples toppled, and towers reeled beneath its fury. My death, probably. Her aunt went off at a tangent. “Oh Christ! How old were you?” “Just—well, I was young. He beheld the grey tower of Willesden Church, embosomed in its grove of trees, now clothed, in all the glowing livery of autumn. Ann Veronica hesitated with a question that had leaped up in her mind, and that she felt was cruel. It really isn’t so easy to go as it seems. The cell in which she was confined was about six feet long and four wide; the walls were scored all over with fantastic designs, snatches of poetry, short sentences and names,—the work of its former occupants, and of its present inmate.
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