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. Always as black and bitter as gall. Mr Jarvis’s sister, that was. A man’s children nowadays are not his own. “So Mr. Lucy kissed him on the cheek. Wood!—no," replied the turnkey.
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