He looked down and met them. ” “Ay,” he repeated, looking away from her. With this view he struck off into a narrow street on the left, and soon entered a small alehouse, over the door of which hung the sign of the "Welsh Trumpeter. Pausing with the intention of turning back, he glanced in the direction of the village church, the tower of which could just be seen through the trees. We went our ways. Brown or Jones, I dare say. The tiles lay a foot thick in the road. Stanley, standing on the hearthrug with his back to the unlit gas-fire.
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