'
'Next to the sea,' I said, 'she loved the flowers of spring.'
'And _I_ should like to be buried here too, brother,' said Sinfi, as
we left the churchyard.
'But a fine strong girl like you, Sinfi, is not very likely to die
unmarried while there are Romany bachelors about.'
'There ain't a-many Romany chals,' she said, 'as du'st marry Sinfi
Lovell, even supposing as Sinfi Lovell 'ud marry _them_, an' a Gorgio
she'll never marry--an' never can marry. And to lay here aneath the
flowers o 'spring, wi' the Welsh sun a-shinin' on 'em as it's
a-shinin' now, that must be a sweet kind of bed, brother, and for
anythink as I knows on, a Romany chi 'ud make as sweet a bed o'
vi'lets as the beautifullest Gorgie-wench as wur ever bred in
Carnarvon, an' as shinin' a bunch o' snowdrops as ever the Welsh
spring knows how to grow.'
At any other time this extraordinary girl's talk would have
interested me greatly; now, nothing had any interest for me that did
not bear directly upon the fate of Winifred.
Little dreaming how this quiet churchyard had lately been one of the
battle-grounds of that all-conquering power (Destiny, or
Circumstance?) which had governed Winnie's life and mine, I went with
Sinfi into Carnarvon, and made inquiry everywhere, but without the
slightest result.
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