One has to train one’s self not to. They found Ruth reading to Spurlock, whose shoulders and head were propped by pillows. He beamed a little as she disappeared into the orchestra room, a cacophony of tuning instruments. The funeral procession had now approached the grave, around which many of the congregation, who were deeply interested by the sad ceremonial, had gathered. A man might be without relatives, but certainly he would not be without friends, that is to say, without letters.
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