"All life is a muddle, and we are all muddlers, more or less. There was a pause, while the steel grey eyes sliced at her. Plote was sleeping or deaf. 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. Manning displayed distress. “Dear me, what a relief! If I had had any nerves that man would have trampled upon them long ago. The stench was cheese-like and unbearable and Lucy dry-heaved. “Stop me if there is anything you want to watch. Now there is none. He shrugged and, to Gerald’s relief, made to leave at last.
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