“You are not boring me,” she said, “but I would rather talk of something else. “Will you tell Sydney that I will see him in the morning,” he said. To her mind, recalling the picture of him the night before, there had been something tragic in the grim silent manner of his tippling. There was little more here than a sideboard, a chest for the vestments, and a simple wooden chair. The agonized mother could scarcely repress a scream at the spectacle that met her gaze.
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