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. “A most wonderful likeness, too. But such was the violence of his grief,—such the compunction he exhibited, that all but one looked on with an eye of compassion. Aren't we funny? And just as I was beginning to lose faith in human beings, to have someone like this come along! It is almost as if she were acting a rôle, and she isn't. She had thought—What had she thought? That this dependence of women was but an illusion which needed only to be denied to vanish.
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