The great gray boles of the palms reminded him of some fabulous Grecian temple. My mother died the day I was born; that’s what they tell me. I suppose I was a little idiotic—I don’t think we either of us mentioned the future, but it was arranged that I should go the next afternoon and have tea with her. " He smiled at her as he smiled at death, cheerfully. He looked like the shadow of himself—thin, feeble, hollow-eyed—his beard unshorn—nothing could be more miserable. “I had a visit from Sir John in my rooms,” she said. He was snoring stupidly.
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