"You have said," pursued the widow, "that she, who has once erred, is irreclaimable. "Right!—right!" cried Jack, striking his fettered hands against his breast. What was the alternative to going home? No alternative appeared in that darkness. 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 held it away from her with an instinctive repulsion, born of her unconquerable antipathy to the touch of strangers.
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