From this perturbed state he was roused by thoughts of his mother, and fancying he heard her gentle voice urging him on to fresh exertion, he started up. ‘It—it is—nothing,’ she uttered jerkily. She trailed him to his apartment and a black door that read 727 in solemn gold-tone lettering. ‘I live in Kent. Not a scar but has its history.
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