"All's over," muttered Jonathan. 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. “Your name and address were upon an envelope found in the pocket of an Englishman who was brought here late last night suffering from serious injuries,” he said in a dry official tone. Wood wound it up by a description of the drenching he had undergone at the Mint pump, the other could hold out no longer, but, leaning back in his chair, gave free scope to his merriment.
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