And there was nothing at all about the scenic setting, you
would surely have said, to send anyone into any kind of a trance.
On one side of me was an open fruit stall; on another, a butcher's
shop; the Cafe Gorizia (with windows flagrant with pink
confectionery), and the two regulation and indispensable saloons to
make up the four corners.
In a sentimentally reminiscent mood, I took out a notebook, to write
down something of my impressions and fancies. But there was a general
murmur of war-inflamed suspicion, and I desisted and fled. How was I
to tell them that there, where I stood, in that very citified and very
nearly squalid environment (it was raining that day too), I could yet
see, quite distinctly, the shadowy outlines of the one-time glorious
House of Richmond Hill?
They were high gates and ornate, one understands. I visualised them
over and against the dull and dingy modern buildings. Somewhere near
here where I was standing, the great drive-way had curved in between
the tall, fretted iron posts, to that lovely wooded mound which was
the last and most southern of the big Zantberg Range, and seemingly of
a rare and rich soil.
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