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. ‘A thing Marthe told me of,’ Melusine answered, her attention on the garments that were still lying higgledy-piggledy, just as she had left them. “Annabel?” he exclaimed. She dropped a flower—it’s in my pocket-book now. Someday I'll take you down there and have them rig up the coconut dance for you. Kneebone.
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