“Come,” he said, “you can’t be meaning to bury yourself. If you ride past the church, and mount the hill, you'll come to Neasdon and then you'll not have above half a mile to go. The cloth was removed, and Wood, drawing the table as near the window as possible—for it was getting dusk —put on his spectacles, and opened that sacred volume from which the best consolation in affliction is derived, and left the lovers—for such they may now be fairly termed—to their own conversation. “She’s going to have some sort of meal with the Widgetts down the Avenue, and go up with them.
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