It was at the top of the building, and looked clear over a clustering mass of inferior buildings toward Regent’s Park. Wild, and his uncle, Sir Rowland Trenchard. She stared out of the paned glass window, watching the trees being blown bare by the gale force. His countenance was pale as death, but not a muscle quivered; nor did he betray the slightest appearance of fear. She makes me feel terribly old-fashioned. The natural gaiety of the place seemed to have affected them both.
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