The postilion obeyed, and dashed off as hard as his horses could gallop along the beautiful road leading to Neasdon and Willesden, just as the serving-men made their appearance. Her hands wove through his black hair, luxuriating in its thickness. He was not, it seemed, the proper stipendiary at all, and there had been some demur to his jurisdiction that had ruffled him. There was something markedly and deliberately liberal-minded in his manner in all their encounters. It begins with that queer piccolo solo.
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