But then what change should I find in
the _expression_ of those features which on the day of the interment
had looked so calm? A thrill ran through my frame as I pictured
myself raising the coffin-lid, and finding expressed upon the face,
in language more appalling than any malediction in articulate
speech--the curse!
At about ten o'clock I mounted the gangway and waited behind a
deserted bungalow built for Fenella Stanley till I should hear the
Odd-Fellows returning. In a few minutes I heard them approaching.
They were singing snatches of songs they had been entertained with at
Graylingham, and chatting and laughing as they went down Wilderness
Road towards Raxton. As they passed the bungalow and adjoining mill
there was a silence.
I heard one man say: ''Ez Tom Wynne's ghooast bin seen here o' late?'
'Nooa, but the Squoire's 'ez,' said another.
'_I_ say they've both on 'em bin seed,' exclaimed a third voice,
which I recognised to be that of old Lantoff of the 'Fishing
Smack'--'leaseways, if they ain't bin seed they've bin 'eeared.
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