He moved, after quiet intervals, with a quick little movement, and ever and again stroked his small mustache and coughed a selfconscious cough. It was enough that she witnessed it and could not go to him. He beheld the grey tower of Willesden Church, embosomed in its grove of trees, now clothed, in all the glowing livery of autumn. His attitude was as different from Gianfrancesco’s as night was from day. She felt her skills make a belated return. S.
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