Taber is the name. He sat on the bed, throwing aside his hat. 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. Only I’m so incensed with that crazy fool Gerald that—oh, well, never mind. He kept that, but the rest.
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