On a stool eight feet high sat a small boy in a faded blue cotton, his face like that of young Buddha. but then I made the mistake of testing it indoors. Paris was full, and it was by no means a retired spot which she had found. These joyful bounds just lace into the stuff of my memories and stay there forever. And Doctor Ralph stood by looking considerate. The cage at Willesden was, and is—for it is still standing—a small round building about eight feet high, with a pointed tiled roof, to which a number of boards, inscribed with the names of the parish officers, and charged with a multitude of admonitory notices to vagrants and other disorderly persons, are attached. There, that sounds frightfully involved, doesn’t it, but perhaps you can make out what I mean.
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