The babies that the woman—your wife—refused to stop creating. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. I thought he was in Newgate. . Ruth's eyes were wet, but she saw light everywhere: the room was filled with celestial aura. But the clearly definite thing was the ultimate escape. 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.
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