The first stroke appeared to arouse all the vindictive passions of Jonathan. He made some obvious comments on the wide view warming toward its autumnal blaze that spread itself in hill and valley, wood and village, below. 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. He yelled but he had no breath to support his own voice. Gerald switched to French. The clouds were nearly black with rain, threatening to spill sleet in daggers and torrents. To the Seven Cities of Refuge Jack proceeded.
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