He had sufficient strength to wait upon himself. The Frenchman had moved back into Piccadilly from Down Street, at which the lad following him had immediately sauntered away a yard or two. He beheld the grey tower of Willesden Church, embosomed in its grove of trees, now clothed, in all the glowing livery of autumn. “Hey sis!” He cried drunkenly. Wood, who was standing at the edge of a raised platform, anxiously waving his hand to him.
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