"My horse is at the door, saddled, with pistols in the holsters,—mount him and fly. “See you to-night, I suppose?” He sauntered off. However, that’s over and done with. She looked up, and recognized Mr. 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. Nobody knows what his real name is, but he's a Hollander.
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