Passing the old rectory, and still older church, with its reverend screen of trees, and slowly ascending a hill side, from whence he obtained enchanting peeps of the spire and college of Harrow, he reached the cluster of well-built houses which constitute the village of Neasdon. Kneebone. Below the window he saw two coolies carrying a coffin, which presently they callously dumped into a yawning pit. A few steps brought him to the door of the vault in which his mother was immured. ‘Me and the butler didn’t see eye to eye. Bodies! Bodies! Horrible things! We are souls.
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