The door to the room in question was closed. “Have you turned him yet?” Michelle whispered hotly, trying not to raise the volume of her voice. 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. Her fanciful imagination no longer drew pictures of the aunt in the doorway of a wooden house, her arms extended in welcome. Sometimes he was obviously irritable and uncomfortable and unfortunate in his efforts to seem at ease.
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