The stretch of red dirt disappeared into a stretch of trees like Van Gogh’s painting. The galleries adjoining it were crowded with spectators,—so was the roof of a large tavern, then the only house standing at the end of the Edgeware Road,—so were the trees,—the walls of Hyde Park,—a neighbouring barn, a shed,—in short, every available position. But such was the violence of his grief,—such the compunction he exhibited, that all but one looked on with an eye of compassion. But then you're an adopted son, and that makes all the difference. "Ay, to business," returned Jonathan, grinning, "the sooner the better.
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