She took the tray with both hands, gulped, and gave way to tears. A black-garbed figure crept forward, noiselessly, towards Gosse’s back. Sir James Thornhill, then, rose. I can vouch for that. I felt as though I had bandaged eyes. 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. .
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