“Your mother was a Gypsy. He read "The Beachcombers" to McClintock that night after coffee; and when he had done, the old trader nodded. It was the same smell that she had in his memory, but now it was definite, palpable, like a perfume. From this spot a road, more resembling the drive through a park than a public thoroughfare, led him gradually to the brow of Dollis Hill.
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