” “I suppose,” said Constance, stencilling away at bright pink petals, “it’s our lot. Any man might have endeavoured to protect himself in this fashion, a man with no one to care, with an unnameable terror at the thought (as if it mattered!) of being buried in alien earth, far from the familiar places he loved. . You can’t do that sort of thing unless you do it over religion, and there’s no religion in me—of that sort—worth a rap.
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