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. “You may go on with that work,” he said, “so long as you keep in harmony with things at home. " "But you will,—won't you?" she rejoined, looking him coaxingly in the face. “I suppose you’re like the rest of them. But, when the sound of the carriage-wheels died away, and he felt that she was actually gone, his resolution failed him, and he rang the bell violently. It was his redemption, his ticket out of hell—that blue-serge coat. "Past noon," replied Blueskin. ‘It did not seem to me that it was so.
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