It was now getting dusk, and he could only imperfectly distinguish the features and figure of the stranger. "I give you one minute for reflection. ‘It could not be helped, whichever way I made my presence known. ‘That there governess didn’t like it, of course, me being the lodgekeeper’s girl, and Martha just a country wench like me. ‘As to Gérard, I do not know why he does this. 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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