She said she hoped she had not distressed him by the course she had felt obliged to take, and he told her not to be a fool. It was a gray day in the spring of 1910. Immediately beneath her lay Willesden,—the most charming and secluded village in the neighbourhood of the metropolis—with its scattered farm-houses, its noble granges, and its old grey church-tower just peeping above a grove of rook-haunted trees. "That gown is getting shabby. There was no such a thing as perfection in a mixed world.
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