It arises, I think, from an over developed sense of humour. At length, I shall ascertain my name. "He who stands on the verge of the grave, as I do, should never be unprepared. ‘This was a picture of Mary Remenham that I have found today. ‘Ain’t enough as my bed is took, my sheets all bloodied, and my gin took for to waste on that fellow’s wound. And Ann Veronica walked beside him, trying in vain to soften her heart to him by the thought of how she had ill-used him, and all the time, as her feet and mind grew weary together, rejoicing more and more that at the cost of this one interminable walk she escaped the prospect of—what was it?—“Ten thousand days, ten thousand nights” in his company. When will he be up?" "That depends.
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