"All life is a muddle, and we are all muddlers, more or less. He was disquieted. His literary instincts were reviving. ” “It came,” he said. From this perturbed state he was roused by thoughts of his mother, and fancying he heard her gentle voice urging him on to fresh exertion, he started up. Still, he was puzzled because McClintock had not spoken. And I passed myself off as Meysey Hill, and since—then—I haven’t had a minute’s peace. He laid her on their old bed and kissed her from head to toe.
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