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. But I mustn't think of these things, or I shall grow mad. "I am, Charcoal. It’s the poor dears who do, who know they will, know they can’t keep it up, who need to clutch at way-side flowers. If, around noon, a coconut proa landed, the boys made no effort to unload. The other bona roba, known amongst her companions as Mistress Poll Maggot, was a beauty on a much larger scale,—in fact, a perfect Amazon.
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