“One is always playing the surgeon, one kills always the thing one loves best. Every now and then she fingered an ornament, moved a piece of furniture, or rearranged some draperies. All the events of the previous day rushed to his recollection; and though he had been unintentionally the cause of his mother's death, he reproached himself as severely as if he had been her actual murderer. She answered slowly. In one angle of the room stood a disused fire-place, with a rusty grate and broken chimney-piece; in the other there was a sort of box, contrived between the wall and the boards, that looked like an apology for a cupboard. The signs of tears had all gone, but some subtle change seemed to have stolen into her face.
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