Even now, during the recurring doubts of the future, the thought of the island was repellent. ’ ‘But what of justice?’ asked Lucilla, evidently dazed. 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. My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall.
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