Always as black and bitter as gall. Wood. 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. Just. “TROUSERS!” she whispered. There was the cottage she had inhabited for so many years,—in those fields she had rambled,—at that church she had prayed. If she’s over, he probably knows all about it.
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