As he
walked up and down the cobbled streets he was moved by a great affection
and sentiment for it. As he climbed the hill to the cathedral, as he
stood inside the Close with its lawns, its elm trees, its crooked
cobbled walks, its gardens, its houses with old bow windows and deep
overhanging doors, he was again a very small boy with soap in his eyes,
a shining white collar tight about his neck, and his Eton jacket stiff
and unfriendly. He was walking up the aisle with his mother, his boots
creaked, the bell's note was dropping, dropping, the fat verger with his
staff was undoing the cord of their seat, the boys of the choir-school
were looking at him and he was blushing, he was on his knees and the
edge of the kneeler was cutting into his trousers, the precentor's
voice, as remote from things human as the cathedral bell itself, was
crying, "Dearly beloved brethren." He would stop there and wonder
whether there could be any connection between that time and this,
whether those things had really happened to him, whether he might now
be dreaming and would wake up presently to find that it would be soon
time to start for the cathedral, that if he and his sisters were good
they would have a chapter of the "Pillars of the House" read to them
after tea, with one chocolate each at the end of every two pages.
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