‘You can’t go to England. She drew a chair to the window and stared at the splendour of the tropical night. Her hair once more was arranged with its old simplicity. Fine woman, Lady Trafford—a little on the wane though. Behind them stalked Blueskin, enveloped in a rough great-coat, called—appropriately enough in this instance,—a wrap-rascal. " "But they are everything to me," cried Jack, stooping to pick them up. In the evening, a band of village musicians, accompanied by most of the young inhabitants of Willesden, strolled out to Dollis Hill, where they formed a rustic concert under the great elm before the door. Notwithstanding the heat of the season,—which was not, however, found particularly inconvenient in this subterranean region,—a large heaped-up fire blazed ruddily in one corner, and lighted up a circle of as villanous countenances as ever flame shone upon.
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