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I dare say it will only provoke a smile of amusement in readers of literary taste when I confess that Bloomfield's memory is dear to me; that only because of this feeling for the forgotten rustic who wrote rhymes I am now here, strolling about in the shade of the venerable trees in Troston Park-the selfsame trees which the somewhat fantastic Capel knew in his day as "Homer," "Sophocles," "Virgil," "Milton," and by other names, calling each old oak, elm, ash, and chestnut after one of the immortals.
The girl laughed; she seemed to laugh at everything. "Phyllis." Could he say: "Is my only joy"? Better keep it! But-for what? He wouldn't see her again if he didn't look out! And he said: "I live at the last house in the park-the red one. D'you know it? Where do you?" "Oh! a long way 23, Millicent Villas. It's a poky little house. I hate it. We have awful larks, though." "Who are we?"
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