His brute strength surged through her veins, she could feel his energy in her heart, his life force stolen like candy from a baby. ‘Your wife?’ ‘My wife,’ he repeated, rising also, his smile mocking her. Immediately beneath her lay Willesden,—the most charming and secluded village in the neighbourhood of the metropolis—with its scattered farm-houses, its noble granges, and its old grey church-tower just peeping above a grove of rook-haunted trees. His horse, which had apparently gone to sleep, preferred to remain where he was. The stairs creaked as Mark rushed down them. Before Jonathan followed he turned to face his assailants.
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