Early in the afternoon he suggested that they should go for a walk.
Everything necessary had been done. An answer to their telegram had
been received from his sister Anne that she could not leave London
until that night but would arrive at Clinton St. Mary station at
half-past nine to-morrow morning. That would be in good time for the
funeral, a ceremony that was to be conducted by the Rev. Tom
Trefusis, the sporting vicar of Cator Hill, the neighbouring parish.
The house now was empty and silent. They must escape from that
figure, now decent, clean, and solemn, lying upon the bed upstairs.
Mathew took his niece by the hand and said:
"My dear, a little fresh air is the thing for both of us. It will
cheer you up."
So they went out for a walk together. Maggie knew, with a deep and
intimate experience, every lane and road within twenty miles' radius
of St. Dreot's, There was the high-road that went through Gator Hill
to Clinton and then to Polwint; here were the paths across the
fields to Lucent, the lanes that led to the valley of the Lisp, all
the paths like spiders' webs through Rothin Wood, from whose curve
you could see Polchester, grey and white, with its red-brown roofs
and the spires of the Cathedral thrusting like pointing fingers into
the heaven.
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