Sepulchre's clock struck eight. 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. . No wonder that Trenchard, as he gazed at this fearful being, should have some misgivings cross him. Monsieur could rely upon his special attention, and for the cooking—well, he had his customers, who came from their homes to him year after year.
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