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 where? Where has he gone? Always he goes off, and he says no word to anyone. He had heard me sing—the fool thought himself in love with me. “The plain common-sense of the case,” he said, “is that we can’t possibly be lovers in the ordinary sense. Jackson, I could almost fancy we had met before. It's almost worth while being sent to prison to have the pleasure of escaping. Your name?" "Owen Wood," replied the carpenter; "I've no reason to be ashamed of it.
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