The blouse dried nicely, it would only need a touch of starch and a little ironing. It's only right that his people should know where he is and what has happened to him. John knew everybody, it seemed. 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.
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