It is a lovely little appendage to the mother who smiles over it, and it does things quaintly like her, gestures with her very gestures. One’s sense of proportion, battered out of all shape in the daily life of cities, reasserts itself. “You needn’t say a word more,” Mr. Arrived at Westbourne-Green—then nothing more than a common covered with gorse and furzebushes, and boasting only a couple of cottages and an alehouse—he perceived through the hedges the objects of his search slowly ascending the gentle hill that rises from KensallGreen.
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