"I hear you plotting with your wicked associates," cried Mrs. . 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. Her expression was a little changed, less innocent, more discerning. The thought caused him an odd kind of pang—of pity, naturally. "An hour hence, I shall return with the priest," replied Jonathan, striding towards the door.
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