"Zounds! what's that!" he cried, as the noise of a scuffle was heard behind them. The man’s passion became almost unbearable at the thought of losing her. Supper was over. It’s the poor dears who do, who know they will, know they can’t keep it up, who need to clutch at way-side flowers. 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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