He beheld the grey tower of Willesden Church, embosomed in its grove of trees, now clothed, in all the glowing livery of autumn. “I think,” he said, “I was a little too mystical about beauty the other day. Remember that. At this time of day the priest would be at his apartments in Brewer Street, a short walk away from Golden Square which the building overlooked. There was something markedly and deliberately liberal-minded in his manner in all their encounters.
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