. CHAPTER VIII. I’ve seen Brewis Charvill, by the by. She nursed at his neck as he peacefully slumbered through being killed. I suppose most of our daughters would marry organ-grinders if they had a chance—at that age. One thing—he could be thankful for that—the peak of his misfortunes had been reached; the world might come to an end now and not matter in the least. The smile had become a laugh. Fruit trees had been brought all the way from India so their product could be laden on the wedding table, fruits with exotic shapes and haunting flavors ended the meal, cleansing the palate.
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