Moving back to the corner again, she ran a hand back over the leather-bound books—which, she realised, were not books at all. " "A jewel-case!" exclaimed Jonathan. 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. Arrived in Paris she remembered that she had not the money for a fiacre.
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