“What a little brick!” he murmured. “Can’t you believe me? I am Meysey Hill. Perhaps I ate something spoiled for breakfast. . I have counted you, and always hoped to count you, the best of my friends. The uproar was tremendous—men yelling— dogs barking,—but above all was heard the stentorian voice of Jonathan, urging them on. The gardens were tidy and geometric, each avenue with a different purpose: flowers for cutting, herbs, brightly colored vegetables.
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