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That night a grave was dug in Willesden churchyard, next to that in which Mrs. She occupied a small sofa, a little apart, a ruddy-complexioned gentleman some years her senior beside her, and glanced about with an air of considerable unease. Inexplicably there flashed into vision the Chinese wedding procession in the narrow, twisted streets of the city, that first day: the gorgeous palanquin, the tomtoms, the weird music, the ribald, jeering mob that trailed along behind. But he reckoned without his host. Someone had thoughtfully wrapped a bit of tissue paper round the electric bulb. She had to think of something fast, or her reaction would start to make believers out of everyone. She had resisted as long as she could; then she had stolen over. "May I beg to know whom I've the pleasure of adressing? Jackson, I conclude, is merely an assumed name. “And you must please not look at me as though I were an executioner,” she declared lightly. "Not a moment is to be lost," whispered Jonathan to Trenchard. " "There was a yacht in the river?" "I have nothing to say.
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