"Miss Enschede, you're seven kinds of a brick!" "A brick?" He chuckled. McClintock's initial revulsion was natural; he was an honest man. 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. “I imagine,” Sir John said, “that your sister would acquaint him with it. He seemed happy with her, finding her proper and seemly. How long wilt thou forget me, O Lord? for ever? How long wilt thou hide thy face from me? She came upon the Song of Songs—which had been pasted down in the Enschede Bible—the burning litany of love; and from time to time she intoned some verse of tender lyric beauty.
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