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. She munched her bland Whopper as he wolfed three in a row, stuffing his mouth with half a dozen French fries at a time. Any financial return was inconsiderable against the promise of this psychological treat. ‘Oh, dearie me, you make me feel a traitor. "Sir Rowland is your uncle—he will be your guardian—he will protect you.
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