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 ?" [Picture: Graves] "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.