The risk I run is nothing to yours. 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. He wore a silk hat a little tilted, and a morning coat buttoned round a tight, contained figure; and a white slip gave a finish to his costume and endorsed the quiet distinction of his tie. He had nothing more to say either to her or to Spurlock. It would not be possible otherwise to live in daily contact with this level-eyed, lovely girl without loving her. Then, after Capes had been through her work and had gone on, it came to her that the fabric of this life of hers was doomed to almost immediate collapse; that in a little while these studies would cease, and perhaps she would never set eyes on him again. Her fingers clutched the side of the door as though to steady herself. The chief of these was a figure of Liberty, with a cat at her feet, in allusion to the supposed origin of the fortunes of its former founder, Sir Richard Whittington. "What would my poor mother say to it?" "I was sorry to see that about your mother, Jack," observed Hogarth.
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