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. All seemed infected with Austin's terrors except Mrs. “They seem smaller, you know, even physically smaller,” she said. What were you doing at Remenham House? I can’t puzzle that bit out. His invalid wife and her money had been only the thin thread that held his life together; beaded on that permanent relation had been an inter-weaving series of other feminine experiences, disturbing, absorbing, interesting, memorable affairs.
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