Folks don’t like ’em. CHAPTER XIII. She crept into the living room and turned off the set, adjusting Cathy’s blanket which had fallen to the carpeted floor. 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. Then the work is optional; they go on their own. Jack, who had something of the Spartan in his composition, endured his martyrdom without flinching; and carried his stoical indifference so far, as even to make a mocking grimace in Sharples's face, while that amiable functionary thrust Thames into the recess beside him. She reached for the door handle.
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