Under his arm he carried a thick, knotted crab-stick. 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. ” “It is Number 8, Cavendish Square,” she answered simply. Twelve years, then, have elapsed since the date of the occurrences detailed in the preceding division of this history. Perhaps in the beginning the women made fools of themselves over him. This morning he heard voices—McClintock's and the Wastrel's.
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