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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. ” “I hope that you may,” Anna answered enigmatically. ‘But there is something still I do not understand. The cloth was removed, and Wood, drawing the table as near the window as possible—for it was getting dusk —put on his spectacles, and opened that sacred volume from which the best consolation in affliction is derived, and left the lovers—for such they may now be fairly termed—to their own conversation. They say it hasn't been opened for eight years—but I won't be eight years in getting out of it. " "Six weeks!" exclaimed Thames, in a melancholy tone. I was stupid—stupid and impulsive beyond measure to burst upon you in this way.
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