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. His conscience, however, was entirely another affair. He devoured her with his eyes too, his shyness not able to disguise his furtive glances at the curvy outline of her breast against the imitation silk, his memory still exquisitely tortured by her movements in the miniskirt. To-night they say he will be conscious. In all other respects they differed as materially. “Gods,” she said, at last, “I’ve done it this time!” “Well!” She took up the neat morocco purse, opened it, and examined the contents. " "What!" she exclaimed, staring eagerly in his face. The sounds of the seashore infiltrated her dreams as she floated in heavenly bliss of sleep.
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