His brows drew a little nearer together. 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. "Quilt!—Mendez!—Where are you?" vociferated Wild, sounding his whistle for the third time. She ought to have been disposed to faint and scream at all these happenings; she ought to have maintained a front of outraged dignity to veil the sinking of her heart.
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