The small bed’s hospital corners had been put into disarray by Michelle’s crying fit. 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. Maggot. Courtlaw rose to his feet. The smell assaulted them even before they entered the restaurant, greasy and savory.
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