“Dyed!” “And your figure?” “One’s corsetière arranges that. He touched her hand, soft and cool to his fingers—she turned at once to look at him. His legs were dreadfully swelled; his hands bruised; and his fetters occasioned him intolerable pain. Send you the shirt. 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. He opened his eyes, protestingly, and beheld the realization of his dream.
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