"You must read it over me some day.
Whatever may be the issue of all this fearful state of things, it will be a sweet thought to all or some of us.

You, my dearest, will I hope read it, for then it will be in your voice in my memory forever, come what may!" "But oh, my dear one," he pleaded, "death is afar off from you." "Nay," she said, holding up a warning hand.

"I am deeper in death at this moment than if the weight of an earthly grave lay heavy upon me!" "Oh, my wife, must I read it ?" he said, before he began.
"It would comfort me, my husband!" was all she said, and he began to read when she had got the book ready.
How can I, how could anyone, tell of that strange scene, its solemnity, its gloom, its sadness, its horror, and withal, its sweetness.

Even a sceptic, who can see nothing but a travesty of bitter truth in anything holy or emotional, would have been melted to the heart had he seen that little group of loving and devoted friends kneeling round that stricken and sorrowing lady; or heard the tender passion of her husband's voice, as in tones so broken and emotional that often he had to pause, he read the simple and beautiful service from the Burial of the Dead.

I cannot go on ...