The procession had just got into line of march, when a dreadful groan, mixed with yells, hootings, and execrations, was heard. "I'm my own master now, and I'll do as I please. She went about in a negligent November London that had become very dark and foggy and greasy and forbidding indeed, and tried to find that modest but independent employment she had so rashly assumed. Your life is like a funeral March. It was an odd little encounter, that left vague and dubitable impressions in her mind. " "Mother!" cried Jack, in a broken voice. .
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