He displayed none of the airy optimism of their previous talk over the downland gate. 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. ‘What happened, ma’am?’ enquired Gerald gently. He climbed on top of her, pressing her into the couch cushions, the gown billowing around them like a cotton candy parachute. But I am not worthy to be any man's wife —far less his wife. Oh, and only look at those stains,’ cried Miss Froxfield, gesturing at the blood on the ruffles to the sleeves of Melusine’s riding-habit, and on the chemise she wore under it. I mean Miss Charvill no harm. ’ ‘I thank you,’ Gerald said drily. He won’t have menservants inside the house, and his collection of carriages is only fit for a museum—where most of his friends ought to be, by-the-bye. Thank him, not me, man.
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