Her stifled misery had betrayed her. 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. "And will swear to it?" "I will. Ascending the stairs, and conducting them along a sombre gallery, in which Trenchard noticed that every door was painted black, and numbered, he stopped at the entrance of a chamber; and, selecting a key from the bunch at his girdle, unlocked it. She was almost tempted to tell him, if only to see the cracks of surprise and incredulity break the immobility of his yellow countenance. And the less “anything” happened the better. “Annabel at last,” he shouted. “You must do more than think of it,” he urged.
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