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She had not chosen her life, but she was foggy on whether or not it was right to deny others the right to join her in her suffering. Time was moving so fast, she could no longer count the days since Gosse had come to her with his preposterous suggestion at the Coq d’Or, where they were staying and where he had robbed her and left her and Martha to their fate. T’weren’t fitting, we knew that. 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. She simply refuses to see or hear from me again.
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