He got out in much the same way from the Gatehouse,—stole the keys, and passed through a room where I was sitting half-asleep in a chair. The road which wound by Westbourne Green, gave him a full view of the hill of Hampstead with its church, its crest of houses, and its villas peeping from out the trees. And this great mellow place, this London, now was hers, to struggle with, to go where she pleased in, to overcome and live in. He rolled on top of her, pinning her with his arms and forming a tented cage. "What's that?" ejaculated the ruffian, glancing uneasily towards the window. .
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