There was nothing left now of the selfassured, prosperous man of affairs. He learnt that his sister was privately married—the name or rank of her husband could not be ascertained—and living in retirement in an obscure dwelling in the Borough, where she had given birth to a son. Not if I read her aright. Kneebone took his leave. Courtlaw, who was sitting by the bedside, bent over him. And in those days, too, he used to help her mother with her gardening, and hover about her while she stood on the ladder and hammered creepers to the scullery wall.
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