“There’s morbid beauty,” said Ann Veronica. Cowering in a corner upon a heap of straw sat his unfortunate mother, the complete wreck of what she had been. "If you don't decide quickly, I'll scream," cried Mrs. Satisfied with his scrutiny, he produced a pocket-flask, and taking off the silver cup with which it was mounted, filled it with the contents of the flask, and then seizing the thin arm of the sleeper, rudely shook it. The thought caused him an odd kind of pang—of pity, naturally. Promise me that you will not disobey the injunctions of her whose memory we must both of us ever revere. He himself had deadened the sound by closing the door.
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