’ ‘Poor sort of a mother,’ Martha said with bitterness. The road which wound by Westbourne Green, gave him a full view of the hill of Hampstead with its church, its crest of houses, and its villas peeping from out the trees. Remember that he’s not at all a bad sort, and to speak frankly, he’s your salvation. "Whose house do you want, master?" said the man, touching his hat. He fell back upon the pillows with a little moan, clutching the slim white fingers fiercely.
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