Your laugh reminds me of—of——" "Whose, Sir?" demanded Jackson, becoming suddenly grave. Many of the soldiers dismounted, and called for drink. Yes, very well. " Jonathan hastily picked up the pen, and presented it to Trenchard, who attached his signature to the document. She went about the gory business of disposing of the bodies, cutting them up with a large butcher knife and packing the light dry pieces of their bloodless remains in a double ply garbage bag, pieces that looked like overcooked, ruined meat. " "I hope they are, Sir," answered Mrs. Her words, as she said them, seemed to her to mean nothing, and there was so much that struggled for expression. .
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