One can't help being jealous, you know, even of an unworthy object. 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. On the mantelpiece in front of her was a note addressed to her in Annabel’s handwriting. She wished that the drive would never end, but it was only three miles after all. He turned the water off and handed her a towel. Plote was sleeping or deaf. What a buzz of admiration ran round the court as he appeared! And, how handsome and composed he looked! Everybody wondered that such a stripling could commit such desperate robberies.
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