She realized dimly that there was no personal thing behind his cry, that countless myriads of Mannings had “My God!”-ed with an equal gusto at situations as flatly apprehended. Just as they reached the eastern outlet of the churchyard— where the tall elms cast a pleasant shade over the rustic graves—a momentary stoppage took place. Mrs. Lucy tried not to make her cringe noticeable. Reaching the panel, she was able with the aid of her lantern to find the lever at once. “Lucy! You found me! I was just about to sleep some of those rum and Cokes off like the pig I am. ’” She played “If I Were a Rich Man,” adding syrupy trills and flourishes at every phrase. Sheppard, attend to what I'm about to say to you. ‘Idiot!’ ‘Enough, now! Softly, you little termagant,’ he ordered, seizing her wrists to hold her off.
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