At Christmas he gave her a set of a small edition of Meredith’s novels, very prettily bound in flexible leather, being guided in the choice of an author, as he intimated, rather by her preferences than his own. Larry kept digging heartily into his spaghetti, not intrigued in the slightest. Just as the attendants were preparing to lower the corpse into the earth, Jack fell on his knees beside the coffin, uttering the wildest exclamations of grief, reproaching himself with the murder of his mother, and invoking the vengeance of Heaven on his own head. “Not for these things, O Ann Veronica, have you revolted,” it said; “and this is not your appropriate purpose. Wood," replied Jack, calmly.
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