But he died when he was a child—long ago—long ago—long ago. ‘Of course she don’t understand,’ snapped Charvill irascibly. Passing the old rectory, and still older church, with its reverend screen of trees, and slowly ascending a hill side, from whence he obtained enchanting peeps of the spire and college of Harrow, he reached the cluster of well-built houses which constitute the village of Neasdon. “I can’t help saying it,” she said, with the quality of her voice altering, “but I do NOT think it is right for an unprotected girl to be in London alone as you are. What!— you know so little of that child? She ran away from you.
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