Just as they reached the eastern outlet of the churchyard— where the tall elms cast a pleasant shade over the rustic graves—a momentary stoppage took place. Chapter XXX SIR JOHN’S NECKTIE Sir John, in a quiet dark travelling suit, was sitting in a pokey little room writing letters. Of all crafts,—and it was the only craft his poor father, who, to do him justice, was one of the best workmen that ever handled a saw or drove a nail, could never understand,—of all crafts, I say, to be an honest man is the master-craft. Your laugh reminds me of—of——" "Whose, Sir?" demanded Jackson, becoming suddenly grave. She loved Florence, wandering the huge markets which bustled day and night. “Much better. Nothing could exceed the dismay of these personages when they learnt why they had been summoned. The thought of going back!—the thought of the unknown out there!—" with a tragic gesture toward the east. “I have heard these things from you before, and you have had my answer.
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