The aunt rushed over to her nephew, knelt and wrapped him in her arms. Endless complications ensue when both sisters return to London. She felt terrible lying to him. His eyes were small and grey; as far apart and as sly-looking as those of a fox. Perhaps this was the real turning point: the hour in which the disordered mind began permanently to readjust itself. He was, however, instantly beaten back; and the fury of the mob was so great that it was with difficulty he could effect a retreat. It’s a mismatch.
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