On the next morning—Sunday—the day on which he expected his mother's funeral to take place, he set out along the Harrow Road. Her cheeks burned for a moment or two when she reached the street, although she held her head upright and walked blithely, even humming to herself fragments of an old French song. If we don’t live it will think we are afraid of it. Time after time he sent Spurlock into this corner or that; but always the boy regained his feet before the murderous boot could reach the mark. “And you must please not look at me as though I were an executioner,” she declared lightly.
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