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. The thought caused him an odd kind of pang—of pity, naturally. Jackson took an accurate survey of the room with his one eye, Mr. Maybe half a year, counting this summer. The darkness was almost palpable; and the wind which, hitherto, had been blowing in gusts, was suddenly lulled. I have had my day; and there were women in it. ’ ‘But you must,’ Gerald said, quite as if he meant it.
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