The man who sat behind a pigeon-hole, and regulated the comings and goings, was for a moment absent. gutenberg. I don’t know. In a few seconds, the shutter flew open,—then the window,—and they were in the room. 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.
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