He seated himself before it. Here and there, a building might be seen with the doors and windows driven in, and all access to it prevented by the heaps of bricks and tilesherds. He beheld the grey tower of Willesden Church, embosomed in its grove of trees, now clothed, in all the glowing livery of autumn. That’s how things are; that’s the order of the world. Sir John followed her gaze, and also saw them.
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