Just as they reached the eastern outlet of the churchyard— where the tall elms cast a pleasant shade over the rustic graves—a momentary stoppage took place. Wood had been my father, as well as yours. “Oh, dammit!” he remarked, “dammit!” with great bitterness as he faced it. “I ought to have done anything! “What’s a man for? “Friendship!” He doubled up his fist, and seemed to contemplate thrusting it through the window. It was painted in the early seventeenth century by a minor artist named DuPre. Humph.
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