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. She walked through the office to the door, aimlessly. "Have you been more successful, Sir?" ventured Ireton. From beginning to end it was first-hand stuff. His name was Marvel, and his avocation, which was as repulsive as his looks, was that of public executioner. No man knew whence she had come nor why. Anyway, I only smoke occasionally.
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