Wood, in deploring his wild career, adverted to the melancholy condition to which it had reduced his mother. She came to her one day and pulled on her apron. 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. E below.
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