"
He was bewildered for a moment. He rubbed his eyes, and looked hard at
me. I seemed human enough on the outside: he couldn't make it out.
He said:
"Yuise a stranger in these parts? You don't live here?"
"No," I said, "I don't. YOU wouldn't if I did."
"Well then," he said, "you want to see the tombs - graves - folks been
buried, you know - coffins!"
"You are an untruther," I replied, getting roused; "I do not want to see
tombs - not your tombs. Why should I? We have graves of our own, our
family has. Why my uncle Podger has a tomb in Kensal Green Cemetery,
that is the pride of all that country-side; and my grandfather's vault at
Bow is capable of accommodating eight visitors, while my great-aunt Susan
has a brick grave in Finchley Churchyard, with a headstone with a coffee-
pot sort of thing in bas-relief upon it, and a six-inch best white stone
coping all the way round, that cost pounds. When I want graves, it is to
those places that I go and revel. I do not want other folk's. When you
yourself are buried, I will come and see yours. That is all I can do for
you."
He burst into tears. He said that one of the tombs had a bit of stone
upon the top of it that had been said by some to be probably part of the
remains of the figure of a man, and that another had some words, carved
upon it, that nobody had ever been able to decipher.
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