‘It had better not be, by God,’ had barked Captain Hilary Roding. There was the cottage she had inhabited for so many years,—in those fields she had rambled,—at that church she had prayed. 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. This was the bitterest hour he had ever known. It's my way when I'm ruffled. He had assumed that her leaving home was the point at issue, that everything turned on that, and that the sole alternative was obedience, and she had fallen in with that assumption until rebellion seemed a sacred principle.
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