.. I'm afraid the Bois Boulogne has spoiled me
for that.... Let me think."
She drooped down on the steps of their house. Her head back,
her supple strong throat arched with the passion of hating
boredom, she devoured the starlight dim over the stale old roofs
across the way.
"Stars," she said. "Out on the moors they would come down by
you.... What is _your_ adventure--your formula for it?... Let's
see; you take common roadside things seriously; you'd be dear
and excited over a Red Lion Inn."
"Are there more than one Red Li--"
"My dear Mouse, England is a menagerie of Red Lions and White
Lions and fuzzy Green Unicorns.... Why not, why not, _why not!_
Let's walk to Aengusmere. It's a fool colony of artists and so
on, up in Suffolk; but they _have_ got some beautiful cottages,
and they're more Celt than Dublin.... Start right now; take a
train to Chelmsford, say, and tramp all night. Take a couple
of days or so to get there. Think of it! Tramping through dawn,
past English fields. Think of it, Yankee.
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