He now understood her interest in Taber, as he called himself: habit, a twice-told tale. But we waste time. He beheld the grey tower of Willesden Church, embosomed in its grove of trees, now clothed, in all the glowing livery of autumn. If hate could kill, Ramage would have been killed by a flash of hate. Until that moment, Jarvis had imagined the child to be safe in the wet-nurse’s cottage. And nearly all these things were fearfully ill-paid.
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