The sky was dripping a wet, slow rain that had forced the city’s inhabitants into taxicabs and dingy cafeterias, the day wholly ruined for all except the insane schizophrenics and her. He was unaware that his illness had opened the way to the inherent conscience and that the acquired had been temporarily blanketed, or that there was any ancient fanaticalism in his blood. 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. Lucia had never been so happy, so content.
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