He made a movement toward her, and then recalled the circumstances of their last conversation in that study. He panted for a moment with unuttered replies, and then, with a scornful gesture, got up and left the cell. 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 walls were pristine white and unmarked except for two sconces and a rather colorless Monet poster that had been framed in an expensive oak surround. “Shot through the lungs,” he remarked.
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