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. Perhaps I ought not to; but this isn't a case to fiddle-faddle over. "Heaven has decreed it otherwise," replied the knight, dejectedly. It would have been the right idea, had Ruth been other than what she was. She realized dimly that there was no personal thing behind his cry, that countless myriads of Mannings had “My God!”-ed with an equal gusto at situations as flatly apprehended.
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