"Whose grave is this?" he inquired of a man who was standing near it. 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. No umbrella either, the sky was delightfully overcast. Old farmhouses loomed as they whizzed by, left behind in the gray like mourners. He rose, steadied himself, then walked out of the dining room.
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