But probably not the truth. 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. "Whose grave is this?" he inquired of a man who was standing near it. An uncomfortable silence followed. Breakfast, too, was an impossible occasion. “I don’t see what he has to do with my coming to London?” “He—he worships the ground you tread on.
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