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. “Turned out to be an impostor, too. The blast once more swept over the agitated river: whirled off the sheets of foam, scattered them far and wide in rain-drops, and left the raging torrent blacker than before. For in life there is but one hour: an epic or an idyll: all other hours lead up to and down from it. It is the same man, for he raved in the hospital, and they fetched me. "You have defied me, and shall feel my power. Because of the thought of love and companionship? No. . Manning, I do not think I love you.
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