In the meanwhile, as he talked, he scrutinized her face, ran his eyes over her careless, gracious poise, wondered hard about her. "I'm sorry," she said. 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 fell into a pleasant dream of positions and work. Bring the light this way—quick! I cannot decipher the signature. The figure she had longed to see came into her line of vision, but at this crucial moment of hideous realisation, Melusine barely took it in, her eyes fixing blankly on the man behind. What more could any reasonable man— especially a watchman—desire? Besides, the Marquis, is a devilish fine fellow, and a particular friend of mine.
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