He beheld the grey tower of Willesden Church, embosomed in its grove of trees, now clothed, in all the glowing livery of autumn. He did not pocket it, but sat hefting it lightly from hand to hand, watching the girl thoughtfully. However, confession of a fault makes half amends for it. Annabel Pellissier was not like the others, he said. Morgan the trader did not haggle over the pearls, but gave me at once what he judged a fair price. Her figure was perfect,—tall, graceful, rounded,—and, then, she had deep liquid blue eyes, that rivalled the stars in lustre. Wood brought up. “Pellissier,” she repeated thoughtfully.
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