For the first time, perhaps, in his life, he repented of his brutality. “It was perhaps my fault. "I knew how it would be," she cried, in the shrill voice peculiar to a shrew, "when you brought that worthless hussy's worthless brat into the house. Kneebone made no effort to check the unreasonable merriment of his companions, but rather seemed to encourage it. We stepped from the Embassy into the motor—and oh! I thought that he was dead. " "What?" he barked. Besides," she added, blushing yet more deeply, "it isn't a proper one to talk upon. 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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