One Friday afternoon, in this pleasant month, it chanced that Mr. Wood gave the required promise, though he could not help thinking that if either of them had cause to be jealous he was the party. 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. “To your room!” Michelle cowered, her face flushed with anger. “If I sit here,” he said, standing up before her abruptly, “I shall have to shout.
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