The latch had not fully caught. 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. Queens and Kings, as always, were made to be manipulated. His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself.
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