‘Peste,’ she wailed, as Emile dropped to the floor, ducking down. 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. “Vee,” she said, “come home. Amid a litter of nails without heads, screws without worms, and locks without wards, lay a glue-pot and an oilstone, two articles which their owner was wont to term "his right hand and his left.
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