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. Kneebone is coming, my dear," ventured Mr. “I ought to have done. ” “I thought I was old enough,” she gasped, between laughter and crying. For the young, immortality must seem promising, even wonderful! The grass is always greener on the other side. Perhaps I ate something spoiled for breakfast. Your aunt and I have discussed all this matter. I don’t conceal it.
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