“Hey,” he said, his eyes slowly adjusting to the soft blackness. “I came to London unexpectedly, and my friends could not take me in. She would be haunted by the visions of their mad faces in her dreams for the next hundred years. She opened her suitcase—new and smelling strongly of leather—and took out of it a book, dogeared and precariously held together, bound in faded blue cloth and bearing the inscription: The Universal Handbook. 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. ” She said. An immediate halt took place.
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