‘You were supposed to be nursing him,’ Martha grumbled, ‘and helping him convalesce. Monroe would lock the whole group of us in the basement, every day. Beyond the steps was a pole-chair in readiness. And, as he was about to put himself into a posture of defence, his mother clasped him in her arms. He took a handful of the gravelly mud, with which the platform was covered, and threw the small pebbles, one by one, towards the gleam. And, as he quitted the room, the poor widow fell with her face upon the floor.
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