"Bury her in Willesden churchyard, as she requested, on Sunday," said Jack. Her eyes were perhaps a little brighter than usual, the firelight played about her hair, there seemed to him to be a sudden softening of the straight firm mouth. "You are a paragon of prudence and discretion," rejoined the woollen-draper, drawing his chair closer to hers. ‘Me, I am Mademoiselle Charvill, the granddaughter of Monsieur Jar-vis Re-men-ham. I thought that you were he.
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