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What letters?" "Letters he's been writing to your father and me and your Uncle Victor." "When?" "Ever since you left school. You were sent to school to keep you out of his way; and you weren't back before he began his persecuting. If you want to know why we left Ilford, that's why. He persecuted your poor father. He persecuted your Uncle Victor. And now he's persecuting me." "Persecuting?"
You couldn't see the garden wall; the dark fields were close close against the house. One Two Three. Seven When the last stroke sounded the New Year would have come in. Ten Eleven Twelve. The bells rang out; the bells of Ilford, the bells of Barkingside, and far beyond the flats and the cemetery there would be Bow bells, and beyond that the bells of the City of London.
She thought: "That was why Mamma and Papa were frightened." "You won't put them into Mamma's head, will you, Aunt Lavvy?" Mamma said, "Get on with your dinner. Papa's only teasing." Aunt Lavvy's face flushed slowly, and she held her mouth tight, as if she were trying not to cry. Papa was teasing Aunt Lavvy. "How do you like that Ilford house, Charlotte?" Mamma asked suddenly.
But in the afternoon Mamma dozed over the Sunday At Home. She was so innocent and pretty, nodding her head, and starting up suddenly, and looking round with a smile that betrayed her real opinion of Sunday. You couldn't do it while she dozed. Towards evening it rained again and Aunt Lavvy went off to Ilford for the Evening Service, by herself.
I was hardly conscious of what happened next hardly aware of passing through the streets to Ilford. I had a sense of houses flying by as they seem to do from an express train; of my knees trembling; of my throat tightening; and of my whole soul crying out to God to save the life of my child until I could get to her. When I reached the house of the Olivers the worst of my fears were relieved. Mrs.
For no reason whatever, as he told himself, his memory would persist in wandering to Ilford Cemetery, in a certain desolate corner of which lay a fragile little woman whose lungs had been but ill adapted to breathing London fogs; with, on the top of her, a still smaller and still more fragile mite of humanity that, in compliment to its only relative worth a penny-piece, had been christened Thomas a name common enough in all conscience, as Peter had reminded himself more than once.
Each held up a small rounded top, fine as a tuft of feathers. On her left towards Ilford, a very long row of high elms screened off the bare flats from the village. Where it ended she saw Drake's Farm; black timbered barns and sallow haystacks beside a clump of trees.
She loathed the flat Essex country and the streets of little white rough cast and red-tiled houses on the Ilford side where the clear fields had once lain beyond the tall elm rows. She was haunted by the steep, many-coloured pattern of the hills round Wyck, and the grey gables of the Manor.
I ran down between the two rows of pines and reached the road just as the coach came up. I found the publican from Ilford aboard he was taking a trip to Sydney. As the coach went on I looked up the clearing and saw the hatter standing straight behind the fire, with his arms folded and his face turned in our direction.
Oliver, and she lived at Ilford, which was at the other end of London and quite on the edge of the country. The poor woman, who was not too happily married, had lost a child of her own lately, and was now very lonely, being devoted to children. Oliver was a bereaved mother and lived on the edge of the country. So I took a note of Mrs. A reply came the following day.
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