” John looked at her sympathetically. Passing the old rectory, and still older church, with its reverend screen of trees, and slowly ascending a hill side, from whence he obtained enchanting peeps of the spire and college of Harrow, he reached the cluster of well-built houses which constitute the village of Neasdon. She dressed quickly, pulling on white jeans and a red tee shirt. “—and your aunt—” For a time he searched for the mot juste. . The entrance of the house 85 was grand, and upon entering she was immediately greeted by John’s mother, a tall, thin woman quite a few years older than Cathy Beck.
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