That means, of course,
that I have to get up at five in order to record her impressions. I
have walked six miles this morning. First to St. Paul's Cathedral;
she likes it when there's nobody about. You'd think it wasn't big
enough for her to see if anybody else was in the street. She thinks
of it as of a mother watching over her sleeping children; she's full
of all that sort of thing. And from there to Westminster Bridge.
She sits on the parapet and reads Wordsworth, till the policeman
turns her off. This is another of her favourite spots." He
indicated with a look of concentrated disgust the avenue where we
were standing. "This is where she likes to finish up. She comes
here to listen to a blackbird."
"Well, you are through with it now," I said to console him. "You've
done it; and it's over."
"Through with it!" he laughed bitterly. "I'm just beginning it.
There's the entire East End to be done yet: she's got to meet a
fellow there as big a crank as herself. And walking isn't the worst.
She's going to have a horse; you can guess what that means.--Hyde
Park will be no good to her. She'll find out Richmond and Ham
Common. I've got to describe the scenery and the mad joy of the
thing."
"Can't you imagine it?" I suggested.
"I'm going to imagine all the enjoyable part of it," he answered. "I
must have a groundwork to go upon. She's got to have feelings come
to her upon this horse.
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