He is something of
a zealot, and conceives it his mission to weed out the small
superstitions of the countryside and plant exact information in their
stead. He comes from up the country--a thin, clean-shaven town-bred
man, whose black habit and tall hat, though considerably bronzed,
refuse to harmonise with the scenery amid which they move. His speech
is formal and slightly dogmatic, and in argument he always gets the
better of me. Therefore, feeling sure it will annoy him excessively, I
am going to put him into this book. He laid himself open the other day
to this stroke of revenge, by telling me a story; and since he loves
precision, I will be very precise about the circumstances.
At the foot of my garden, and hidden from my window by the clipt
box hedge, runs Sanctuary Lane, along which I see the heads of the
villagers moving to church on Sunday mornings. But in returning they
invariably keep to the raised footpath on the far side, that brings
the women's skirts and men's smallclothes into view. I have made many
attempts to discover how this distinction arose, and why it is adhered
to, but never found a satisfying explanation.
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