Arrived in the street, he lifted his eyes, and stood (within nearer view of it) looking at the tree.
Hundreds of miles away from London, under another tree of that gentle family, this man--so cold to women in after life--had made child-love, in the days of his boyhood, to a sweet little cousin long since numbered with the dead.

The present time, with its interests and anxieties, passed away like the passing of a dream.

Little by little, as the minutes followed each other, his sore heart felt a calming influence, breathed mysteriously from the fluttering leaves.

Still forgetful of the outward world, he wandered slowly up the street; living in the old scenes; thinking, not unhappily now, the old thoughts.
Where, in all London, could he have found a solitude more congenial to a dreamer in daylight?
The broad district, stretching northward and eastward from the British Museum, is like the quiet quarter of a country town set in the midst of the roaring activities of the largest city in the world.

Here, you can cross the road, without putting limb or life in peril.