"I tell you what, Mr. Where can I get one?" asked O'Higgins. "Don't swear, Jack, or I shall distrust you. Everything was fresh and bright, from the kindly manners of the Frutigen cobbler, who hammered mountain nails into her boots, to the unfamiliar wild flowers that spangled the wayside. 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. “No doubt about that, I fancy,” Meddoes answered lightly.
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