E. Jack had no sooner taken his place in the cart, than he was followed by the ordinary, who seated himself beside him, and, opening the book of prayer, began to read aloud. She would not look at him, would not think of him; when her mind wavered, then she muttered to herself in the darkness so as to keep hold of her generalizations. Your life is like a funeral March. Indeed, it is rather a matter of whose death is close. His face was half hidden under a freshly pipeclayed sola topee—sun-helmet.
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