A chill rain thrummed against the sides of John’s car, having slowed from deluge to steady patter, the snow was 158 dissolved where it lay. And now, Sir Rowland," he continued, turning to the knight, "to our own concerns. That night a grave was dug in Willesden churchyard, next to that in which Mrs. ‘Charvill?’ uttered Roding frowningly. There, that sounds frightfully involved, doesn’t it, but perhaps you can make out what I mean.
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