Immediately beneath her lay Willesden,—the most charming and secluded village in the neighbourhood of the metropolis—with its scattered farm-houses, its noble granges, and its old grey church-tower just peeping above a grove of rook-haunted trees. The hand that had been clenched lay open, relaxed; and upon the palm he saw her mother's locket. Just as the attendants were preparing to lower the corpse into the earth, Jack fell on his knees beside the coffin, uttering the wildest exclamations of grief, reproaching himself with the murder of his mother, and invoking the vengeance of Heaven on his own head. All the rest of his existence was subordinate to this pursuit; he lived for it, worked for it, kept himself in training for it. “Ruin me? Think of me with fondness? Are you dying of cancer or something?” He demanded. "If I spoke to him, my interest might be misinterpreted.
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