But it is my fault. The flat was apparently empty. 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. “I’ll come to the station,” said Ann Veronica. It was comforting to have her there, snoring gently. His voice had broken.
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