Marvel was almost dislodged from his seat on the coffin by a dead dog, which was hurled against him, and struck him in the face. She never questioned the motives of the characters; she had neither the ability nor the conceit for that; but she could and often did correct his lapses in colour. She had denied it with vigor, and here she was! She did not so much exhaust this general question as pass from it to her insoluble individual problem again: “What am I to do?” She wanted first of all to fling the forty pounds back into Ramage’s face. “I never saw Courtlaw with her—never heard her speak of him.
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