There was a concerted gasp of shock from both the black-garbed lad and the coachman. It was an oldfashioned peasant blouse, white, square necked, and trimmed with lace. The man looked as though he would have liked to deny it, but could not. Then to Martin's brandy-shop, in Fleet Street. But it would serve. There are no funerals among the poor, only burials. From the further end of the apartment came the low music of a violin.
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