So perfect was the illusion, that he could almost fancy he heard the solemn voice of the ordinary warning him that his race was nearly run, and imploring him to prepare for eternity. There’s stories, too, about his demonstrator, Capes Something or other. “Will you come this way,” she said, “into the drawing-room? There is no one there just now. In Paddington. It was always jabbing him with white-hot barbs, waking or sleeping. His father was one of my old customers, and I am happy to find his son treading in his steps. He caught the elderly dame’s eye, throwing her a desperate message. His mother smiled in return, an act that brightened her thin face. To perdition with them all.
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