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. He seemed to be trying to understand something very perplexing and elusive. McClintock wrote me about you; but all I needed was the sight of your face as it was a moment gone. "Ah!" he exclaimed, in a tone of anguish. The glass in the windows was broken—the roof unthatched—the walls dilapidated. The door was opened for her by a weary-looking youth in a striped jacket several sizes too large for him. "Stay!" interposed Jonathan. So Mrs.
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