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. Ruth sighed; Spurlock stood up and drew his hand across his forehead as if awakening from a dream. "What?—help take care of him? Why, you can't do that, Miss Enschede!" was the protest. ‘But I don’t trust you an inch.
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