He beheld the grey tower of Willesden Church, embosomed in its grove of trees, now clothed, in all the glowing livery of autumn. There was first the Avenue, which ran in a consciously elegant curve from the railway station into an undeveloped wilderness of agriculture, with big, yellow brick villas on either side, and then there was the pavement, the little clump of shops about the postoffice, and under the railway arch was a congestion of workmen’s dwellings. The entire city seemed to exist for beauty and art alone. “Ugh!” she said. It is necessary. "Thank Heaven!" she gasped. Giles's was lined with spectators. Ownership seemed only a reasonable return for the cares and expenses of a daughter’s upbringing. "Jack!" Her son averted his gaze. She took refuge in beating her pillow and inventing insulting epithets for herself.
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