Old Bedlam. She sat on the edge of the bed —the wardress was too busy with the flood of arrivals that day to discover that she had it down—and her skin was shivering from the contact of these garments. The funeral procession had now approached the grave, around which many of the congregation, who were deeply interested by the sad ceremonial, had gathered. ” she said. "Buck up! While there's life there's hope. As for Mike’s observations on John’s desires to get laid, it was the pot calling the kettle black. Not a bad man as men go, but he would sell whisky and gin. Your laugh reminds me of—of——" "Whose, Sir?" demanded Jackson, becoming suddenly grave. She spoke with a certain odd deliberation carefully chosen words which fell like drops of ice upon the man who sat listening.
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