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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. Just because she was sorry for that young fool! "Uh-huh," he repeated, rising and bowing as he passed Ruth's table. “You’re kidding, right?” “Not kidding at all. And what was singular she did not recount to the doctor that morning's adventure. There were all varieties of bird-life known in these latitudes, from the bird of paradise down to the tiny scarlet-beaked love-birds. ‘Oh, peste, you make me late!’ She glared up at Roding. ‘Don’t even think of it,’ warned Gerald, in the voice generally reserved for his men.
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