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. ‘First I must see Jacques, and—’ ‘No need for that,’ intervened Roding, grasping her arm and trying to drag her to the door. ‘Then mayhap this will persuade you!’ With a scrape of steel, he drew his sword from its scabbard. Quite right. Did he like freaks? She opened her black umbrella, her giant sun deflector. Men are against her.
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