“It’s like Troy!” said a voice of rapture. 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. There are so many things I want to tell you, and they stand on such different levels, that the effect is necessarily confusing and discordant, and I find myself doubting if I am really giving you the thread of emotion that should run through all this letter. It may be treacherous, it may lay up a store of future woe; but it insures present happiness, and that is sufficient. My late husband, I mean. “Dear me!” he said.
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