"Come with me, my love, come—come," cried his mother, seizing his hand, and endeavouring to force him away. "Mr. He stopped on the curb-stone, not facing her but as if he was on his way to cross the road, and spoke to her suddenly over his shoulder. "Mother, I come to you. “Thank you—and good-bye. There is a small yewtree west of the church. I can't help looking at you frequently.
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