You won’t want to be late the first evening, and it’s ten minutes past seven now. 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. Mrs. "Ruth!" She had gone to the door, aimlessly, without purpose. " "Company!" echoed Rachel; "at this time of night?" "Company, child," repeated Kneebone. Have we not received Lady Bicknacre just this morning? Not to mention the Comtesse de St Erme.
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