Willey Farm he loved passionately. He loved the little pokey kitchen where men's boots tramped, and the dog slept with one eye open for fear of being trodden on, where the lamp hung over the table at night, and everything was so silent. He loved Miriam's long, low parlour, with its atmophere of romance, its flowers, its books, its high rosewood piano. He loved the gardens and the buildings that stood with their scarlet roofs on the naked edges of the fields, crept towards the wood as if for cosiness, the wild country scooping down a valley and up the uncultured hills of the other side. Only to be there was an exhilaration and a joy to him.
'This reminded me of your place ....' with thanks to my friend Dione who sent me this prose a day or two ago x
