But underneath this tolerance there is always the vague hope that your manhood will someday reassert itself. You see, the horse it does not belong to me, nor to the nuns. 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. It is not well that a daughter should talk to her father as Ruth talked to hers that day. The child was still safe.
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