Bird, the turner, to give him an order this evening. Loving was self-forgetfulness, pure delighting in another human being. “My wife. It was true. 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. When, by slow and toilsome efforts, he had arrived midway, something obstructed his further progress. ‘Lord in heaven, could it be so?’ ‘Don’t look at me,’ exploded Hilary. “Are you looking for Mike? He’s working.
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