Towards night, however, he ventured out, and walked on towards London. Wood, in equal trepidation. Pausing with the intention of turning back, he glanced in the direction of the village church, the tower of which could just be seen through the trees. He's nice. She was tired, hungry—and thus somewhat impatient for the food Mrs Ibstock might bring—and downcast. And you have stolen my dagger.
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