’ He gestured towards the fulminating general. For a long time to come that would naturally be the theme of any story he undertook to write. This was number 13, Montague Street, familiarly spoken of in the neighbourhood as “White’s. For I still love her mother. ” She glanced out of the window, and the distant trees were a froth of hard spring green and almond blossom. Below her stretched a valley of rich meadowland, of yellow cornfields, and beyond moorland hillside glorious with purple heather and golden gorse.
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