Immediately beneath her lay Willesden,—the most charming and secluded village in the neighbourhood of the metropolis—with its scattered farm-houses, its noble granges, and its old grey church-tower just peeping above a grove of rook-haunted trees. She let Jack go as he passed through the opening. ‘No more, Saling, no more,’ said Mrs Sindlesham in accents of exhaustion. She found the silence comforting, as old people often do. The smells of skewered fennel, roast chicken, and broiled pheasant saturated the air, and she could smell other wonderful aromas about them.
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