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. So far it had been plain sailing, and it had seemed fairly evident to go on: “I find it very difficult to answer your letter. That for you!" And she snapped her fingers in his face. “Do you understand what I am talking about? It’s no good if you don’t. "Unless you have eaten a Syrian orange," he was always saying, "you have only a rudimentary idea of what an orange is. Yet I fancy that we who have been poor ourselves must be the best judges of the needs of the people.
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