Lord Charvill champed upon an invisible bit for a moment or two, closing the gap between himself and the girl, and muttering the name to himself in an overwrought sort of way. Grasping one of chairs about the little table, he drew it forward and sat astride it, in a fashion as insolent as it was unexpected. 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. "Drink this, then," roared Blueskin.
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