Spurlock was by nature orderly, despite his literary activities. Here was a poor half-naked creature, with a straw crown on his head, and a wooden sceptre in his hand, seated on the ground with all the dignity of a monarch on his throne. 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 doubted how she stood toward him and what the restrained gleam of his face might signify. It was a dismal and depressing sight to see a great city thus suddenly overthrown; and the carpenter was deeply moved by the spectacle. Meanwhile, she doesn’t realize she’s pregnant and he’s still after her, day after day. Only a few weeks ago there was a bloody battle on the bridge there between the soldiery and the local police. Sheppard.
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