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. And I’ve read, and thought, and guessed, and looked—until MY innocence—it’s smirched. From the threshold she looked her accuser steadily and coldly in the face. He had heard me sing—the fool thought himself in love with me.
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