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. A dry cough's the trumpeter of death. This time she tried to kill me with a dagger. " "So she was," replied the woollen-draper, helping himself to an enormous pinch of snuff with the air of a man who does not dislike to be rallied about his gallantry,—"so she was. “The fees are paid to the end of the session. "Farewell!" blubbered the executioner's wife, pressing his hand to her lips. Please to let me go there. " "Help me through at all hazards, Poll," cried Jack, straining towards the opening. I am used, you understand, to guard my secret.
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