They litter up the room. "Miss Enschede, you're seven kinds of a brick!" "A brick?" He chuckled. He reached a silver cigar and cigarette box from the sideboard and put it before his father-in-law, and for a time the preliminaries of smoking occupied them both. Thames Darrell. ‘What in the world is that?’ demanded Miss Froxfield. 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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