He beheld the grey tower of Willesden Church, embosomed in its grove of trees, now clothed, in all the glowing livery of autumn. He was accompanied by a young man of about seven-and-twenty, who carried his easel, set it in its place, laid the canvass upon it, opened the paint box, took out the brushes and palette, and, in short, paid him the most assiduous attention. “I’ve tried to make words tell it. ” His fingers touched hers for a moment under the ledge of the box. Mr. It cuts. The Supper at Mr. Perhaps the old fool was not as fanciful as they had thought. "Farewell!" cried Jack, embracing them. Twenty guineas, mind. "Water!" he gasped.
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