The bump was coarse and didn’t feel right. . “I drink your very good health, Sir John and Lady Ferringhall,” he said, “and I wish you a pleasant journey back to England. “My God!” he said again. 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. " "Who are you?" ejaculated Trenchard, scarcely able to credit his senses. Aliva Trencher.
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