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 was confounded by the presence in which he found himself. To-night all London believes that he was your husband. "Your sympathy is being wasted.
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