It ought never to have begun. Beyond was an avenue of tall poplars that rose like columns, disappearing into undulating hills that were black with sleeping houses and fertile soil. Here one might live the life of golden days. 9. With this view he struck off into a narrow street on the left, and soon entered a small alehouse, over the door of which hung the sign of the "Welsh Trumpeter. They were followed by Jonathan, who carried a stout stick under his arm, and planted himself near the stone.
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