That night a grave was dug in Willesden churchyard, next to that in which Mrs. The place was gloomy, with its darkly panelled walls, but it was sparsely furnished. It may be well, therefore, before proceeding farther, to describe it more minutely. Why? Love was a word of God's, and yet her father had denied it—denied it to the Book, denied it to his own flesh and blood. She stood 218 there, broken bottle still in hand. We’re handfuls. Something seemed to dredge up from the recesses of her memory and she brightened. Wood, who were, furthermore, engaged in a little conjugal tête-à-tête of their own.
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