. ” “That settles it. I hope we may never find her again. 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. The wine was sweetened with cinnamon and cloves and rare edible flowers, which her father had instructed her not to drink excessively of. Spurlock mused over the previous night. His lips were tight drawn. My mother died the day I was born; that’s what they tell me. Jove, he didn’t take to it kindly, I can tell you. Guided by the glare of the forge, which threw a stream of ruddy light across the road, Jack soon found the place of which he was in search.
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