"Adieu, my worthy uncle. "Mur—der!" roared Wood, struggling to free himself from his assailant, by whom he was half strangled. 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. Then instinct took over. Infested by every description of vagabond and miscreant, it was, perhaps, a few degrees worse than the rookery near Saint Giles's and the desperate neighbourhood of Saffron Hill in our own time.
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