"Good-b'ye, Jack," said Figg, putting on his hat. ‘It had better not be, by God,’ had barked Captain Hilary Roding. What!—add another drop to her cup? Who knows? Any day they may find me. Wild, and his uncle, Sir Rowland Trenchard. 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.
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