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. There was some one there. “She has been to my flat before. She looked from Anna, who was far too nice-looking to be travelling about alone, to that reassuring pile of luggage, and wrinkled her brows thoughtfully. All that I regret are the wasted years, and I am not sure that I regret them. She had unaccountable gleams of sympathy with and liking for him. Daughters were not like sons. .
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