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. " "Then I must wait a long time," grumbled Blueskin. S. “Call me Annabel. ‘You are, I think, a gentleman, no?’ Gerald bowed. " "'Ouns!" ejaculated Terence, in alarm, "would you turn snitch on your old pal, Quilt?" "Ay, if he plays a-cross," returned Quilt. "What of that," rejoined Jonathan.
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