The old woman told him she had no such article to dispose of, but recommended him to a neighbouring blacksmith. 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. “Dear me, what a relief! If I had had any nerves that man would have trampled upon them long ago. He was walking listlessly along, well-dressed, debonnair, good-looking. A cup of lies. She had told him, point blank, that since the Church had neither annulled the first marriage nor sanctified the second one, she was not his wife. That would come later. A nod was exchanged. Little did I imagine at the time that it was my own father to whom he referred.
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