When the carpenter concluded his recital, Jonathan was for a moment lost in reflection. “Come, we must go home and have some luncheon. D'ye hear how the wanes creaks on old Winchester House? We shall have a touch on it ourselves presently. Just as they reached the eastern outlet of the churchyard— where the tall elms cast a pleasant shade over the rustic graves—a momentary stoppage took place. A dozen words, and he saw Enschede as clearly as though he stood hard by in the flesh.
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