"Bury her in Willesden churchyard, as she requested, on Sunday," said Jack. \"Word gets round. "Eggs for me! You mistake, child. But you must not imagine me wrapped in melancholy. Like a nightmare memory that returned again and again to haunt her. The last of Jarvis’s harlots must have departed in a hurry, for she had apparently left a roomful of clothes. Their subsequent conversation is outside the scope of our story. Already the warm sun was drawing from the pines their delicious odour. Run along now; but return in half an hour. At last some anodyne formed itself from these exercises, and, with eyelashes wet with such feeble tears as only three-o’clock-in-the-morning pathos can distil, she fell asleep. .
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