’ Melusine swung away and moved to stare dully out of the window of the little chapel vestry onto the mews outside. ‘And I’d like to know what the devil—’ ‘Out of town?’ repeated Melusine, stupefied. I have often felt before that it is only when one has nothing to say that one can write easy poetry. Urging his steed along Oxford Road,— as that great approach to the metropolis was then termed,—he soon passed Marylebone Lane, beyond which, with the exception of a few scattered houses, the country was completely open on the right, and laid out in pleasant fields and gardens; nor did he draw in the rein until he arrived at Tyburn-gate, where, before he turned off upon the Edgeware Road, he halted for a moment, to glance at the place of execution. ‘Certainly I am not a nun. I wish she wouldn’t look like that at us over her glasses.
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