That farm on the right is the Woodlands, and that just in front is the Broadlands.
Broadlands and its hereditary thousands would have been no mean match for the daughter of a country squire.
But I notice that since our arrival at Broadlands, Harshaw has not troubled her with his attentions.
This is better than any of the machines did at the Broadlands exhibition.
Fancy a woman of my age racing a girl of her build and constitution seven miles to Broadlands!
