Already the warm sun was drawing from the pines their delicious odour. This morning he heard voices—McClintock's and the Wastrel's. 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. ‘But you are idiot.
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