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I was bawling so hard that the Nurse took pity on me and slipped me two Children’s Tylenol. There was a Greyhound bus that she was overdue to ride. There's a friend of Sir James—a young man, an engraver of masquerade tickets and caricatures,—his name I believe is Hogarth. She washed her face with unwonted elaboration before she went to bed. Kneebone made his appearance. All the events of the previous day rushed to his recollection; and though he had been unintentionally the cause of his mother's death, he reproached himself as severely as if he had been her actual murderer. "One of us has got to die," he panted. ’ ‘Yes, but if it is only we that know, it is of no use at all to me. The mother was far more real to her than the father; the ghostly far more substantial than the living form.

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