She could not risk going in the door, lest she run into Larry or Cathy drinking a nocturnal glass of milk or Mike raiding the refrigerator for snacks. "Bury her in Willesden churchyard, as she requested, on Sunday," said Jack. " "So she was," replied the woollen-draper, helping himself to an enormous pinch of snuff with the air of a man who does not dislike to be rallied about his gallantry,—"so she was. All the same, I wish I had that fellow by the throat! Just the virile, unregenerate man in me wishes that.
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