Marina had retired to bed, drinking wine slowly, sleeping when she was not drinking. She reads novels—and history—and all sorts of things. 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 held down the light, and a moment afterwards beckoned, with a blanched cheek, to Rowland.
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