"A vow," she answered,—"a vow to my dead husband. Wood;—"Owen—Owen!—Thames, help!" "Coming!" cried Mr. ‘Yes, only that this consolation he had found before he married my mother. He beheld the grey tower of Willesden Church, embosomed in its grove of trees, now clothed, in all the glowing livery of autumn. It is a very good English name, no? But who is she?’ ‘Mrs Sindlesham, I should say,’ said Mrs Ibstock, correcting herself. Martin’s eyes seemed about to pop out of his head. ” “It is Number 8, Cavendish Square,” she answered simply.
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