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It was as though he were personally aggrieved. Infested by every description of vagabond and miscreant, it was, perhaps, a few degrees worse than the rookery near Saint Giles's and the desperate neighbourhood of Saffron Hill in our own time. Every other wall comprised bookcases, except where the doors appeared. The birds were singing blithely amid the trees,—the lowing of the cows resounded from the yard,—a delicious perfume from the garden was wafted through the open window,—at a distance, the church-bells of Willesden were heard tolling for evening service. Kneebone invariably takes part with me, when any trifling misunderstanding arises between us.
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This video was uploaded to waterscolumns.info on 23-08-2024 16:43:40
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