His mother used to live i' this village, just down yonder; but when her son took to bad ways, she went distracted,—and now she's i' Bedlam, I've heerd. “I do not blame him. But what did the occupant of the box care? The laugh was always with the dead: they were out of the muddle. His obtuse hands punched and jabbed at her uselessly, then he throttled her neck with the last of his strength. It was in her eyes—the big thing that comes but once. “Our ways happened to lie together. He realized that he was committed to the path across the fields, an uninteresting walk at the best of times.
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