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. " It was curiously like the intermittent murmur of the surf, those weird Sundays, when her father paused for breath to launch additional damnation for those who disobeyed the Word. He pulled on her shoulder, bringing her mouth to his in a kiss. Read it, and you'll find that your unfortunate uncle, Sir Rowland, surrenders to you all the estates in Lancashire. Lady Trafford, supposed to be childless, broken in health and spirits, frail both in mind and body, is not likely to make another marriage.
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