The road which wound by Westbourne Green, gave him a full view of the hill of Hampstead with its church, its crest of houses, and its villas peeping from out the trees. There had been fusses and scenes dimly apprehended through half-open doors. By a miracle, he averted its path, his hold on the girl’s mouth shifting fast to grasp her wrist. ‘You do not believe me?’ ‘I do not. “For men have reason, women rhyme A man scores always, all the time. The inn was a military haunt.
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