“Come,” he said, “you can’t be meaning to bury yourself. I might as well try to build a ladder to heaven. At the back of her mind, dim and yet disconcerting, was the perception that she herself did not know what she wanted. The wedding procession passed on, and the cynical rabble poured in behind. Passing thought. What can she be? The wife of a country tradesman, or a duchess? And such a meek little husband too. " He smiled at her as he smiled at death, cheerfully. Rank ingratitude, I call it. Now what? There was an interest, or why ask him who they were. Then she burst into a peal of laughter. Wood," returned Jackson, with the utmost composure; "you're a headborough, and a loyal subject of King George. But she must not laugh.
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