Wood started to his feet. “It was your own fault,” she exclaimed. The gardens were tidy and geometric, each avenue with a different purpose: flowers for cutting, herbs, brightly colored vegetables. From this spot a road, more resembling the drive through a park than a public thoroughfare, led him gradually to the brow of Dollis Hill. One’s got to be a better man than one’s father, or what is the good of successive generations? Life is rebellion, or nothing. She calls us her guests, but in reality we are her prisoners.
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