CHAPTER XXXI
THE MYSTERIOUS MEETING
AFTER more than a fortnight spent in the highlands of Scotland,
Jerome passed hastily through London on his way to the continent.
It was toward sunset, on a warm day in October, shortly after
his arrival in France, that, after strolling some distance from
the Hotel de Leon, in the old and picturesque town of Dunkirk,
he entered a burial-ground--such places being always favorite
walks with him--and wandered around among the silent dead.
All nature around was hushed in silence, and seemed to partake
of the general melancholy that hung over the quiet resting-place
of the departed. Even the birds seemed imbued with the spirit
of the place, for they were silent, either flying noiselessly
over the graves, or jumping about in the tall grass.
After tracing the various inscriptions that told the characters
and conditions of the deceased, and viewing the mounds
beneath which the dust of mortality slumbered, he arrived
at a secluded spot near where an aged weeping willow bowed
its thick foliage to the ground, as though anxious to hide
from the scrutinizing gaze of curiosity the grave beneath it.
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