He beheld the grey tower of Willesden Church, embosomed in its grove of trees, now clothed, in all the glowing livery of autumn. She was beauty, the key of magic, the teacher of spells, the predictor of wars, and the gate of the future. Seeing the footman about to follow her in, Gerald clamped a hand onto his shoulder. Proof? There is someone who might be willing to help. She got into rows through meddling with their shoes and tennis-rackets, and had moments of carefully concealed admiration when she was privileged to see them just before her bedtime, rather radiantly dressed in white or pink or amber and prepared to go out with her mother. Never mind, I’ve got plenty.
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