The windows were small, and strongly grated, looking, in front, on Kendrick Yard, and, at the back, upon the spacious burial-ground of Saint Giles's Church. All bad verse—originally the epigram was Lang’s, I believe—is written in a state of emotion. "Aw, piffle!" he said, half aloud and rather disgustedly, as he stepped out into the sunshine. "He is all alone. And Ann Veronica walked beside him, trying in vain to soften her heart to him by the thought of how she had ill-used him, and all the time, as her feet and mind grew weary together, rejoicing more and more that at the cost of this one interminable walk she escaped the prospect of—what was it?—“Ten thousand days, ten thousand nights” in his company.
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