" "Can't we break it off?" replied Mrs. He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is. He beheld the grey tower of Willesden Church, embosomed in its grove of trees, now clothed, in all the glowing livery of autumn. As soon, however, as the last solemn rites were over, and the remains of the unfortunate woman committed to their final resting-place in Willesden churchyard, his firmness completely deserted him, and he sank beneath the weight of his affliction. Shotbolt?" asked Austin.
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