He beheld the grey tower of Willesden Church, embosomed in its grove of trees, now clothed, in all the glowing livery of autumn. "What would my poor mother say to it?" "I was sorry to see that about your mother, Jack," observed Hogarth. All she had found was the love of this dog. "They shall not harm you, my love!" she exclaimed. The soil was identical, the climate; still, they would not bear the Olympian fruit, with its purple-lined jacket and its snow-white pulp. Spurlock dove headlong at the other's legs, toppling the man.
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