So she said: “I won’t come home. ” She laughed. He beheld the grey tower of Willesden Church, embosomed in its grove of trees, now clothed, in all the glowing livery of autumn. “This is mere nonsense, mere tongue-tied fear!” she said. As he stood upon the bridge, he held down the light, and looked into the profound abyss. Ashen blonde, a shade that would never excite the cynical commentary which men applied to certain types of blondes.
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