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. With a cry of triumph, he rose, the sword hilt grasped in his fingers, the point swishing up towards her. For many of them it will smirch us forever. But men of the Spurlock type, who walk straight, who are unobtrusive and intensely pale, they break swiftly and inexplicably.
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