David left this afternoon. His mother's scream seemed again to ring in his ears, and he was so deeply affected that, fearful of exciting attention, he was about to quit the sacred edifice, when he was stopped by the entrance of Thames, who looked pale as death, with Winifred leaning on his arm. He was caked with dried muck. And on Monday and Tuesday she had failed to find him here. I could see his little animal brain churning away, inventing plans for me, formulating his revenge. It was surely odd that her thought should pick up that picture and recast it so vividly.
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