Passing the old rectory, and still older church, with its reverend screen of trees, and slowly ascending a hill side, from whence he obtained enchanting peeps of the spire and college of Harrow, he reached the cluster of well-built houses which constitute the village of Neasdon. A male voice, vibrant with terror, yelled out hoarsely. “I won’t have you quarrelling and crying in the Avenue,” he said. It mattered not whether she flunked the year as she would soon be gone. The oaken beam, nine inches in thickness, was now the sole but most formidable obstacle to his flight. " "Go on, tell me," he urged, enchanted.
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