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 houses of Queen Anne's day, pleasant in their mellow brick; streets of a dim and shadowy but yet leafy sort stretching northward, streets once well known by my weary feet; and so on till the main road sweeps down the hill in a broad, steep descent on its way to Shepherds Bush and Acton, Gold Hawk Road and Hammersmith. For London, a fine street enough; well-planted with planes, one side of it bounded by the walls and the gardens of the big white houses in Holland Park. And on the right hand side, about half way down the hill, Clarendon Road goes northward. On this day that I speak of I had no business on earth in Clarendon Road, but my spirit had business there and I turned down it and walked slowly along till I came opposite to Number 23. And then I stopped and looked very hard at that respectable, though quite unremarkable three-storied house, and especially at a window on the top floor. I was glad, I think, to see that the house front was being repainted; for what remained of the old face seemed to show that no fresh paint had touched Number 23 since I had occupied the small narrow room behind that window on the highest story, in the