Conceiving himself called upon, as the intimate friend of the deceased, to pay this last tribute of respect to her memory, he appeared as one of the chief mourners. And here she was—in a mess because it had been impossible for her to avoid leaning upon another man. Rules are for established things, like the pieces and positions of a game. She walked down the station approach, past the neat, obtrusive offices of the coal merchant and the house agent, and so to the wicket-gate by the butcher’s shop that led to the field path to her home. Here she would find candy awaiting her, bits of ribbon, books. A queer game this: he could not move directly as in an ordinary case of manhunt. "On my soul, yes," rejoined Jonathan.
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