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. With a cry of triumph, he rose, the sword hilt grasped in his fingers, the point
swishing up towards her. "Thames was always your favourite," observed Jack, as he fastened another
piece of wood on the teeth of the iron stopper. These little squares of coloured paper interested her mightily—hotel labels. His eyes looked a little bloodshot to her; his face had lost something of its ruddy
freshness. In a moment he
was beside her. Then she took her sister’s hand. He boasted of her ability to learn to men who were a
stone’s throw from having the power of the pope himself. This formality irked her: she wanted to play a little, romp. "Well reminded," answered Rowland, who had witnessed his struggles with a
smile of gratified vengeance; "I had forgotten the accursed imp in this confusion. Not MY affair. There is light enough from the sun,’ she said, relieved.
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