“My Mom was a good lady. But, go and see who it is, love. Her aunt had summoned up an altogether too vivid picture of her father as the masterful man, overbearing, emphatic, sentimental, noisy, aimless. 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. It had been her father’s surname, and it had sounded far more innocuous and American than Iovelli. ’ The girl held out her hands. ‘Precisely,’ agreed Gerald.
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