“So Mr. 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. ‘Is there a resemblance?’ ‘This is Mary Remenham?’ ‘That is my late niece, yes. She was particularly charmed by his theory of friendship. Will you find your destiny, I wonder, or will you go through life like so many others—a wanderer, knocking ever at empty doors, homeless to the last? Oh, if one could but find the way to your heart. His high brow was what caused all the ladies in town to covet him, it radiated intelligence but also something more primal. There is the key. He would never recognize me now. “Get you a cold one?” “No thanks.
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