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Gerald guessed she was biting her tongue on an explosive retort as she eyed him. Analysis would come later, when the primitive conscience, satisfied, would cease to dominate his thought and action. 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. I next proceeded to Jenny Bunch's, the Ship, in Trig Lane—there I got the same answer.
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