The picturesque scoundrel had the true gift; and Spurlock was filled with pity at the thought of such genius gone to pot. As he stood upon the bridge, he held down the light, and looked into the profound abyss. Under the plumed hat, her eye kindled. 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. "In this pit," he added, pointing to the chasm below, "your brother is buried.
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