"Bury her in Willesden churchyard, as she requested, on Sunday," said Jack. She had to school herself to speak the words which she knew would cut him like a knife. She was finally dead, going to Hell. Kneebone helped to the pigeon-pie; while Thames unwired and uncorked a bottle of stout Carnarvonshire ale. Cool and sunny, it seemed that God himself smiled upon that day, the sunbeams streaming through the magnificent arches dustily as the priest murmured in soporific Latin. ‘But―but how can he know?’ His soldier’s instinct overtook Gerald and he dropped all his insouciance in a bang, becoming brisk.
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