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. "But don't wait for me, Sir Cecil. Cheveney was another Paris friend, was he?” she asked. John picked it up and put it in her hands. I cannot be intimate—’ stressing the word with a deep look ‘— with one I feel to be a stranger. ’ He sighed.
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