“I wish you and I had drunk that love potion,” he said. There were some deepseated fears of the rot spreading to England, if the simmering discontent of the peasantry of France were to erupt any further. If I’d meant it, my girl, you’d be dead meat. ‘You do not like it?’ ‘That is hardly the point. I seek chaos, but not out of choice. He brought home her first “meal”, a man who he 77 claimed was a highwayman who had raped several women and was destined for the hangman’s noose. More than this, it would serve to mitigate her own abysmal loneliness to pool it temporarily with his. 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.
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