It was a spring-tide at half ebb; and the current, which was running fast and furiously, bore him instantly away. “It’s jolly,” he said, “to feel you have come to me. You’ll never even see me again, for that 268 matter. 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. “One has to be so careful of one’s friends and acquaintances,” he remarked, by way of transition. This will be safer than cutting his throat on shore.
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