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. “Okay. "'Sdeath!" cried Hogarth, aside to the poet. "Hear me, Jack!" shrieked his mother. ‘But I am perfectly serious,’ he returned in a voice of protest. It might have been the moon, or the phosphorescence of the broken water, or it might have been his abysmal loneliness; but suddenly he caught her face in his hands and kissed her on the mouth. “My dear, can you see in this light? I think I would like to get in. All the fury had left her, swamped by an inexplicable flood of warmth. She came very near that night to resolving that she would return to her home next morning. Her eyes were dilated— fixed in a horrified stare at the parting in the curtains which hung before the window. Like a hare closely pressed, Jack attempted to double, but the device only brought him nearer his foes, who were crossing the field in every direction, and rending the air with their shouts. ‘If you care for me at all, shoot me. I'll tote it myself.
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