He walked through the misty September night to his rooms. 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 wonder if there is!” said Capes, and paused, and then bent down over the boy who wore his hair like Russell.
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