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. My mother died the day I was born; that’s what they tell me. “You have the temperament,” he said. “The fool I have been!” he cried; and now speech was coming to him. “I am sorry. So I come round the other way and—Lordy, miss, I’m that sorry I made a mull of it. He has been a father to me and my child. I meant mischief. With this view he struck off into a narrow street on the left, and soon entered a small alehouse, over the door of which hung the sign of the "Welsh Trumpeter.
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