She found herself struggling with a storm of tears. The old woman told him she had no such article to dispose of, but recommended him to a neighbouring blacksmith. Slowly and reluctantly she came to realize that Vivie Warren was what is called an “ideal. Wood bore up with great fortitude against the shock, attended the inquest, delivered his evidence with composure, and gave directions afterwards for the funeral, which took place on the day but one following—Sunday. That is what my mother used to call me. ‘Very well, mademoiselle, so be it,’ he snapped. Why ever did you let me get into that wagonette?” “I thought we had to,” said Ann Veronica, who had also been a little under the compulsion of the marshals of the occasion.
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