She sat drawn together in her chair in the corner of the box, at a loss what to say or do—afraid, curious, perplexed. "My mother!—my poor mother!" ejaculated Thames, falling on his knees, and bursting into tears. " So saying, he scrambled over the rubbish, and got into the chimney. "Can't you see? I can't hurt her, if … if she cares! I can't tell her I'm a madman as well as a thief!… What a fool! What a fool!" A thief. On the one hand, she seemed to think plainly and simply, and would talk serenely and freely about topics that most women have been trained either to avoid or conceal; and on the other she was unconscious, or else she had an air of being unconscious—that was the riddle—to all sorts of personal applications that almost any girl or woman, one might have thought, would have made. Anna, who was disposed to be sharply critical, could find no fault with it. It was his redemption, his ticket out of hell—that blue-serge coat. But men of the Spurlock type, who walk straight, who are unobtrusive and intensely pale, they break swiftly and inexplicably. He saw his father, calling to him from an icy white tunnel, beckoning to him. That glove is still preserved. And the age gets higher.
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