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. Yet she could not bring herself to hate the girl, or even Gianfrancesco, the one who would have sent her to her death more than once. He reached for her chin and lifted it up. And when there is no longer any need to use it, why then, enough you say—and throw it away.
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