In the midst of the holy place, which he had formerly profaned, lay the body of his unfortunate mother, and he could not help looking upon her untimely end as the retributive vengeance of Heaven for the crime he had committed. He knew me, Nigel. McClintock stared into the bowl of his pipe and Spurlock into his coffee cup. Maggot, laughing. A black-garbed figure crept forward, noiselessly, towards Gosse’s back. Far away there was the one woman for this boy of mine—some human being who would understand the dear fool better than all the rest of the world. It feels like it.
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