“Isn’t that rather a strange question—under the circumstances?” he asked quietly. How Jack Sheppard attended his Mother's Funeral 435 XXVII. The girl was like some north-country woodland pool, penetrated by a single shaft of sunlight—beautifully clear in one spot and mysteriously obscured elsewhere. Beneath the serene unconcern of Ann Veronica’s face was a boiling tumult. Wood bore up with great fortitude against the shock, attended the inquest, delivered his evidence with composure, and gave directions afterwards for the funeral, which took place on the day but one following—Sunday. He was in evening dress: swallow-tailed coat and white tie. ‘Hilary, thank God! Have you a pistol about you? Or better yet, your sword. The air was sweet with the perfume of flowers, and the melody of murmuring insects, the blue sky was cloudless, the heat of the sun was tempered by the heather-scented west wind. But there were two places of punishment which merit some notice from their peculiarity.
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