“I believe she’s dressing up-stairs—now. Well, kill me. ’ Triumph leapt in Gerald’s chest. The second look told me I was wrong. "I won't trouble you further, Jack," he remarked. He did not particularly care. "Yon's a dear man," said McClintock. Though encumbered by his irons, his step was firm, and his demeanour dignified. On the next morning—Sunday—the day on which he expected his mother's funeral to take place, he set out along the Harrow Road.
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