It did seem in so many ways exactly what Ramage said it was—the sensible thing to do. Marvel was almost dislodged from his seat on the coffin by a dead dog, which was hurled against him, and struck him in the face. The sounds that reach the ear, and the objects that meet the eye, are all calculated to awaken a train of sad and serious contemplation. He touched a long-standing sore, and Ann Veronica found herself vainly trying to explain—the inexplicable. “We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose.
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