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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. He was caked with dried muck. Indeed, he told me nothing at all. I dare not reflect upon the effect that her son's fate,—if the efforts to save him are ineffectual,—may have upon her enfeebled frame, and still worse upon her mind. Next instant he had her immobilised, her hands behind her back, her chest crushed to his, the white veil slipping once again. "No," answered Jack, approaching her, "though, if I had done so, he would have merited his fate. It was only a few months ago that I told you you must come to London, and you only laughed at me. We shall have—hardly any money. She only weighed about 100 pounds and she was about 5’9”, much taller than you and I. He returned figuratively to his bed—the bed he had made for himself and in which he must for ever lie.
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