Her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes bright. ‘I ain’t done nothing wrong, I swear it. “I’ve got it. 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. The recollection of all her unhappiness, the loveless years, the unending loneliness, the injustice of it, rolled up to her lips in verbal lava. These sweeping dignities were not within the compass of her will; she remembered she liked Ramage, and owed things to him, and she was interested—she was profoundly interested.
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