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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 had a bittersweet fragrance, like dusty books and honeysuckle. Well, I don’t think that’s fair. On the bench was set a quartern measure of gin, a crust of bread, and a slice of cheese. This—this shatters a world!” She tried to feel sorry, but her sense of his immense egotism was strong and clear.
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