” True summer descended like a sticky fever upon August’s arrival, bringing with it miasmas of humidity that seemed to hang from the trees like mucus. On the next morning—Sunday—the day on which he expected his mother's funeral to take place, he set out along the Harrow Road. " "I can't exactly say, Sir Rowland. An ancient smile lay on his lips. “How do you know—why do you think that my name is Anna?” He smiled in a quietly superior way. 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.
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