Raymond Plote would only be missed by his mother. Checking an ominous cough, that, ever and anon, convulsed her lungs, the poor woman addressed a few parting words to her companion, who lingered at the doorway as if he had something on his mind, which he did not very well know how to communicate. She longed to own something lasting, anything, but knew her wishes to be stupid. They would be partners only in loneliness.
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