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. Her white shirt was mired with a central bloodstain, his pants caked with mud. He would have to go on; he would be forced to enact all the obligations he had imposed upon himself. I needn't tell you to tread carefully. “You must fetch a doctor,” she said. So your name must be Americanized? What country? It sounds Spanish. You’d better not have all the money on you; you had better open a small account in the postoffice and draw it out a fiver at a time.
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