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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. She imagined herself on a barren 41 plain, post-Apocalypse, convulsing, waiting to die with the cockroach. “No,” she said, under her breath, “you can’t face it. “Okay. “You are mistaken, David.
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