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 could think about it later. I didn't think. As in all things, so his thoughts came to him deliberately. The door leading to the front of the house was stealthily opening. Mother! do you know what you do? Would you sell yourself to this fiend?" "I would sell myself, body and soul, to save you," rejoined his mother, bursting from his grasp. It may be instinctive; it may be that children vaguely realize that at the end of all wedding journeys is disillusion. He had got here at speed by that means. “I am much obliged to you,” he said. "It was the story of a man, so to speak, who had left his vitals in his native land and wandered strange paths emptily. —BRENDON.
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