Books were always sliding and slipping, clumsy objects to hold. 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. She walked straight across to the wardrobe and opened it. " "Well, it's mighty fine of you to break your journey in this fashion—for someone you don't know, a passer-by. Not only that, but he carried himself erect— the slight slouch which had bent his shoulders had altogether disappeared.
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