Wood lifted up his hands in mute despair. I’m making a mess of my life— unless you come in and take it. He glanced downwards at the impetuous torrent, which he could perceive shooting past him with lightning swiftness in the gloom. Outside stood a stocky, combat boot-clad girl of seventeen with a teased mass of spiky bottle-black hair. He then mounted the jaded hack, which had long since regained its legs, and was quietly browsing the grass at the road-side, and, striking spurs into its side, rode off. He beheld the grey tower of Willesden Church, embosomed in its grove of trees, now clothed, in all the glowing livery of autumn. My very sentences stumble and give way.
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