He pulled on his pants, his yellow shirt with the ridiculous horse logo, his brown socks, and shoes. 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. Melusine—the real Melusine—evidently did not see him immediately, for her attention was on her descent from the high vehicle. It's a long time since we met, eight years and more. Rich folks, once. At once. You wanted to play a lone hand.
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