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. “I have a letter for you, and no end of messages. Ireton, was appointed to the office, stood with a hammer in one hand, and a punch in the other, near the great stone block, ready to fulfil his duty. There is turmoil, shouts, cries, jostlings, milling congestions that suddenly break and flow in opposite directions. With people of that sort all sorts of things may happen.
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