The movement was fatal to her son. A little Cockney recovered it, and made ridiculous attempts to get to her and replace it. He was scarcely concealed when he heard the horsemen, who perceived they had overshot their mark, ride back. She could still remember his face, the perpetually wet lips that turned down at the sides, his drooping Roman eyes. 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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