What else could one say? I left him to suppose—a registry perhaps. Anna merely glanced at the coarse, flushed features, and at once shook her head. Melusine ripped at the buttons of the garment, dragging it open and away, and gasped at the massive red stain on his shirt. People sat in unusual pews, and a wide margin of hassocky emptiness intervened between the ceremony and the walls. But it was hopelessly hard to put. Beneath these prints, a cluster of hobnails, driven into the wall, formed certain letters, which, if properly deciphered, produced the words, "Paul Groves, cobler;" and under the name, traced in charcoal, appeared the following record of the poor fellow's fate, "Hung himsel in this rum for luv off licker;" accompanied by a graphic sketch of the unhappy suicide dangling from a beam.
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