As soon, however, as the last solemn rites were over, and the remains of the unfortunate woman committed to their final resting-place in Willesden churchyard, his firmness completely deserted him, and he sank beneath the weight of his affliction. “Your father is dead too, I believe,” he continued, “and your mother. ‘But I am perfectly serious,’ he returned in a voice of protest. ‘We’ll have you right out of the way, just in case. Spurling, for so was she named, had a warm nut-brown complexion, almost as dark as a Creole; and a moustache on her upper lip, that would have done no discredit to the oldest dragoon in the King's service. She sat on the edge of her bed and looked about her, at her room, at the row of black-covered books and the pig’s skull.
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