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. He was keen to get to work, but the inspiration would not come. ‘I knew I should find you still here. He wondered why she thought love made people happy, and began to talk of the smilax and pinks that adorned the table. We are alone, Sir Rowland," he added, snuffing the candles, glancing cautiously around, and lowering his tone, "and what you confide to me shall never transpire,—at least to your disadvantage. Mind you don't stir till supper's over. .
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