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. Lucy had just began to invoke a solace where John was concerned, doing her best to shelve him as not so special after all. It was dated from the House of Commons on the previous day. "I could hang him now if I liked. I pray you, Gérard, do not fail me. Lucy found solace in the lack of sunshine, but the November cold was over the top, even for Illinois.
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