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CHAPTER ELEVEN

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    slikeapalepageuponthechurchwall,andilluminesthekneelingfamilyintheniche,andthetabletsetupin1780totheSquireoftheparishwhorelievedthepoor,andbelievedinGod—sothemeasuredvoicegoesondownthemarblescroll,asthoughitcouldimposeitselfupontimeandtheopenair. Nowafoxstealsoutfrombehindthegorsebushes. Often,evenatnight,thechurchseemsfullofpeople.Thepewsarewornandgreasy,andthecassocksinplace,andthehymn-booksontheledges.Itisashipwithallitscrewaboard.Thetimbersstraintoholdthedeadandtheliving,theploughmen,thecarpenters,thefox-huntinggentlemenandthefarmerssmellingofmudandbrandy.Theirtonguesjointogetherinsyllablingthesharp-cutwords,whichforeversliceasundertimeandthebroad-backedmoors.Plaintandbeliefandelegy,despairandtriumph,butforthemostpartgoodsenseandjollyindifference,gotramplingoutofthewindowsanytimethesefivehundredyears. Still,asMrs.Jarvissaid,steppingoutontothemoors,"Howquietitis!"Quietatmidday,exceptwhenthehuntscattersacrossitquietintheafternoon,saveforthedriftingsheepatnightthemoorisperfectlyquiet. Agarnetbroochhasdroppedintoitsgrass.Afoxpadsstealthily.Aleafturnsonitsedge.Mrs.Jarvis,whoisfiftyyearsofage,reposesinthecampinthehazymoonlight. "…and,"saidMrs.Flanders,straighteningherback,"InevercaredforMr.Parker." "NeitherdidI,"saidMrs.Jarvis.Theybegantowalkhome. Buttheirvoicesfloatedforalittleabovethecamp.Themoonlightdestroyednothing.Themooracceptedeverything.TomGagecriesaloudsolongashistombstoneendures.TheRomanskeletonsareinsafekeeping.BettyFlanders'sdarningneedlesaresafetooandhergarnetbrooch.Andsometimesatmidday,inthesunshine,themoorseemstohoardtheselittletreasures,likeanurse.Butatmidnightwhennoonespeaksorgallops,andthethorntreeisperfectlystill,itwouldbefoolishtovexthemoorwithquestions—what?andwhy? Thechurchclock,however,strikestwelve.
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