The trees were graceful and brown, arching and fanning their golden leaves as if to shower with coins the pink-gold sky. Your husband could have told you that. " "And I trust you will never have occasion to weep again, my poor soul," replied Wood, setting down his lantern, and brushing a few drops from his eyes, "unless it be tears of joy. In any case, there was no doing anything on a Sunday and Brewis Charvill, his main quarry, had gone out of town unexpectedly. Anna stood on the step and looked up and down the street for a hansom.
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