White became conscious of a distinct sense of uneasiness, and showed it in her face. Arrived at Westbourne-Green—then nothing more than a common covered with gorse and furzebushes, and boasting only a couple of cottages and an alehouse—he perceived through the hedges the objects of his search slowly ascending the gentle hill that rises from KensallGreen. “The Holy Ghost! The Pope! My mother!” She squealed.
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