He beheld the grey tower of Willesden Church, embosomed in its grove of trees, now clothed, in all the glowing livery of autumn. The venturous climber gazed for a moment at the assemblage beneath, to ascertain that he was not discovered; and, having satisfied himself in this particular, he stepped out more boldly. “Don’t!” cried Ann Veronica, struggling faintly, and he released her. ‘Ah, the tragedy. She looked more than her sixty odd years, in spite of a still lush head of black hair, streaked with a little grey, which was visible under her cap and of immediate interest to Gerald. It’s the sort of way a woman always does gloss over her ethical positions. ‘Come, come, ma’am,’ he said smiling.
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