Thus, the same system of plunder was everywhere carried on. It was his mother, and as he gazed on her pallid features and motionless frame, Jack's heart severely smote him. It was always jabbing him with white-hot barbs, waking or sleeping. They began to wrestle fiercely. 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.
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