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. ” “Did it come—in Paris?” “I do not know,” he answered. By this action, Lucy already knew what the answer was. "What did you do?" he asked, in a broken voice. She could smell his cologne underneath his collar, or perhaps his aftershave. Kneebone, who did not appear in the slightest degree disconcerted by his cool reception, each sank carelessly into a chair, and made himself at home in a moment. But all these hours, trying to teach the child wariness toward life, and the moment his back was turned, this! He was, perhaps, still dazed by the inner revelation—his own interest in Ruth.
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