He started a dozen stories, but they all ended in the waste-basket. But he was not a father one could make much of. She could feel his eyes surreptiously scanning her backside. He found the horse where Thames told him he would find him, mounted, and rode off across the fields in the direction of town. Had this not been the case, he must have refused even to see his Frenchified granddaughter. But I see now. 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. But you belong to me—and I want you.
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