Chapter VIII “WHITE’S” Northwards, away from the inhospitality of West Kensington, rumbled the ancient four-wheel cab, laden with luggage and drawn by a wheezy old horse rapidly approaching its last days. Wanton!… This, then, was what her father had meant. She got up, drew up her blind, and stared out of window at a dawn-cold vision of chimneys for a time, and then went and sat on the edge of her bed. There were no doors in the bungalow; instead, there were curtains of strung bead and bamboo, always tinkling mysteriously. She saw a pole-chair; that would be this Mr. "Auntie?" he cried. "You are," replied Kneebone. It was possible that his first impressions had not been correct.
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