’ ‘Melusine!’ came sharply from the doorway. I thought that you were he. ‘Beg pardon, sir?’ asked the sergeant, evidently mystified. There were moments when she doubted whether the whole mass of movements and societies and gatherings and talks was not simply one coherent spectacle of failure protecting itself from abjection by the glamour of its own assertions. He beheld the grey tower of Willesden Church, embosomed in its grove of trees, now clothed, in all the glowing livery of autumn.
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