” He made a little noise in his throat as if something had cried out within him, and for a time they were both too full for speech. He beheld the grey tower of Willesden Church, embosomed in its grove of trees, now clothed, in all the glowing livery of autumn. Hilary Roding was all soldier now, his earlier grievances laid aside. They were bickering, she could tell by the way the mother threw her fat arms into the air and paced restlessly about the tiny clapboard house.
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