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. I’ve got to run to get to my Study Hall. From this perturbed state he was roused by thoughts of his mother, and fancying he heard her gentle voice urging him on to fresh exertion, he started up. "Don't stir," replied Jack. Life is a patchwork of impressions, of vanishing personalities.
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