’ Mischief overtook Melusine. He beheld the grey tower of Willesden Church, embosomed in its grove of trees, now clothed, in all the glowing livery of autumn. The open books she knew by heart; aye, they had been ground into her, morning and night. Silly, isn’t it? Undisciplined. She went to market every day to fetch the daily bread and more herbs for more medicines and potions, plus treats for the apprentices made of honey and almond paste. And opposite to him, with a book in his hand,—but it couldn't be a prayer-book,—sat Jonathan Wild, in a parson's cassock and band. Narrow little beady brown eyes, and she’s got big eyebrows like dead caterpillars.
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