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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. "It is the fiend!" she exclaimed, recoiling. Why do you look so sad?” She opened her eyes wider and stifled her emotions. She returned home through a world that was as roseate as it had been gray overnight. “Hill gradually recovering consciousness. Any man might have endeavoured to protect himself in this fashion, a man with no one to care, with an unnameable terror at the thought (as if it mattered!) of being buried in alien earth, far from the familiar places he loved. Together they made their painful way to the door, not even checking, in the effort this cost both, on what Gosse might be doing. "A storm!" exclaimed the landlord. “Can I bring you anything, sir—a whisky and soda, or a liqueur? You’ll excuse me, sir, but you haven’t touched your coffee. This was done, and Austin returned with a crest-fallen look to the table.
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