It is queer how ideas pop into one's head. He claimed me for his wife, and showed to every one a marriage certificate. You are not my husband. He disappeared into its thick doors like a magician’s rabbit. “You seem to be taking our little joke more seriously than it deserves, Ferringhall,” he remarked. —D'ye hear?" Still the widow remained silent. It became a sort of duel at last between them, and all the others sat and listened—every one, that is, except the Alderman, who had got the blond young man into a corner by the green-stained dresser with the aluminum things, and was sitting with his back to every one else, holding one hand over his mouth for greater privacy, and telling him, with an accent of confidential admission, in whispers of the chronic struggle between the natural modesty and general inoffensiveness of the Borough Council and the social evil in Marylebone. 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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