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. ‘You are not sympathique in the very least. ” She put her wrists upon his shoulders, feeling him surge with the pride of his own masculinity as she touched him. In spite of God and wasps and her father, she had stolen plums; and once because of discovered misdeeds, and once because she had realized that her mother was dead, she had lain on her face in the unmown grass, beneath the elmtrees that came beyond the vegetables, and poured out her soul in weeping. ‘You don’t mean to say she’s here?’ ‘Was,’ Gerald corrected. You forget all the mass of training and tradition and instinct that go to make him a tolerable master. He refused. “Lucy! Where is my daughter? Where have you. “But perhaps I want to confess them. That old chap has a remarkable range in reading. At Christmas he gave her a set of a small edition of Meredith’s novels, very prettily bound in flexible leather, being guided in the choice of an author, as he intimated, rather by her preferences than his own. It was not a hopeful looking group.
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