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. It was Ramage, the occupant of the big house at the end of the Avenue. "But don't wait for me, Sir Cecil. But Jack and his companion were already gone. " "Help me through at all hazards, Poll," cried Jack, straining towards the opening. “Yes I did. " "And now, father, your blessing—your consent!" cried Thames. He would get her to come to tea with him, usually in a pleasant tea-room over a fruit-shop in Tottenham Court Road, and he would discuss his own point of view and hint at a thousand devotions were she but to command him. If he wished, he could even take this inheritance from her. She turned about, and was persecuted by visions, half memories, half dreams, of Ramage. ‘What in God’s name do you think you’re playing at?’ ‘Let me alone, man,’ Gerald muttered under his breath. "Won't you sit down?" "I beg your pardon! Come into the consultation office"; and the doctor led the way.
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