No one had lived here since old man Remenham had died some eighteen months ago, for the heir, so it was rumoured, was a relative with property of his own. As if it were she, and not Melusine, who had been hurt by the imposters. Her features were meagre, and ghastly white, and had the fixed and horrible stamp of insanity. Immediately beneath her lay Willesden,—the most charming and secluded village in the neighbourhood of the metropolis—with its scattered farm-houses, its noble granges, and its old grey church-tower just peeping above a grove of rook-haunted trees. ‘It will suit me very well that you go away, because you are a person without sense and I do not wish to talk to you.
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