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. His breath grew shallower as he approached the room, conscious of the loudness of his hallway-reverberated footfalls. Then light footsteps became audible, descending the staircase with a certain deliberation and a faint rustle of skirts. "It must look sharp then, or I shall give it the slip," laughed Ben: "the gale never yet blowed as could perwent my crossing the Thames. I see that I am a beast—I beg your pardon, bête—and an imbecile, and an idiot. Almost instantly she had recognized the fallacy of such a statement. She brought Sebastian’s chloroformed rag up to his face with her right.
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