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. “I didn’t blow up the house. She spent the morning up to ten in writing a series of unsuccessful letters to Ramage, which she tore up unfinished; and finally she desisted and put on her jacket and went out into the lamp-lit obscurity and slimy streets. "He stands before you," rejoined her son. It depresses one, you know. Her hair was of the darkest brown, and finest texture; and, when unloosed, hung down to her heels.
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