She could smell the savory tinge of his sweat in the air. “Always planning for death. ” “I suppose,” Anna said, “that those are reasonable deductions. And if this soi-disant Valade had already gone to Monsieur Charvill— ‘Very well,’ she said to Jack without turning round, ‘but now is Wednesday. ” Anna looked for a moment steadily at her sister, whose face was still averted. 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.
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