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. Cosette sat under the table, still as a mouse, fondling her pitiful doll. That handsome, finely drawn face belonged to a soul with clean ideals. Wood made no reply; but, hastily kissing his weeping daughter, and bidding her be of good cheer, hurried off. Too many.
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