He beheld a tall gaunt man, his brown face corrugated like a winter's road, grim, stony. ‘Ah, trying to be the young hero, I take it, which is why he near got hisself killed. She practiced swaddling on a doll, pretending to pat the head of her imaginary infant boy. 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. He noted an ebony cane laid close to hand, which suggested she was able to get about.
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