In the evening, a band of village musicians, accompanied by most of the young inhabitants of Willesden, strolled out to Dollis Hill, where they formed a rustic concert under the great elm before the door. The world had not passed by but had gone around it in a tremendous half-circle. His gray eyes were closed, his persimmon-colored lips open and panting. Which was not to say that ladies were not interested in him. These joyful bounds just lace into the stuff of my memories and stay there forever.
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