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. For the love of Heaven, Jack, don't move!—Don't alter a muscle, if you can help it. His gaze drawn, Gerald watched him dip to pick up a crushed square of white linen and a starched object that resembled a helmet.
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