The road which wound by Westbourne Green, gave him a full view of the hill of Hampstead with its church, its crest of houses, and its villas peeping from out the trees. “Won’t you sit down,” she said, “and tell me what you want to say?” Her voice was flat and faint. A stack of chimneys, on the house above them, had yielded to the storm, and descended in a shower of bricks and stones. Everybody seemed greatly concerned about the sincerity of Tolstoy.
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