The gallant woollen-draper was now in his thirty-sixth year. The mother was far more real to her than the father; the ghostly far more substantial than the living form. “But I wish,” she said, “I had some idea what I was really up to. His clothes had evidently seen some service, and were plentifully begrimed with the dust of the workshop. He was clearing up these difficulties by tracing a partially obliterated suture the Scotchman had overlooked when the door from the passage opened, and Manning came into his universe.
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