If hate could kill, Ramage would have been killed by a flash of hate. 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. He continued thoughtfully. Stanley pointed to the letter with a pipe he had drawn from his jacket pocket.
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