My wife—killed me. With the extra seventy-five pounds she had put after birthing her final son, Steven, her knees weren’t in good shape to be running up and down stairs all day. “Suppose you call me by my proper name,” she said quietly. The funeral procession had now approached the grave, around which many of the congregation, who were deeply interested by the sad ceremonial, had gathered. Thames Street was wholly impassable. Then Courtlaw looked across at her with a white puzzled face.
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