Stanley coughed and faced toward the house. ‘Go on up to the boy, my dear. She gazed steadily out of the window at that arc of glittering lights. 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. “Want to see my fangs?” She asked. But if his frame was immature, his looks were not so. The change in her face was not a pleasant one. The little grating in the door, the sense of constant inspection, worried her.
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