“And yet in a very few weeks I shall have done with it all. Supper was over. Ruth hugged the envelope and McClintock, with the end of a burnt match, drew a cabalistic sign. The air was sweet with the smoky perfume of myrrh, hazy and dense with incense. 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. "Come with me, my love, come—come," cried his mother, seizing his hand, and endeavouring to force him away.
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