--NON INTRES IN JUDICIUM CUM SERVO TUO, DOMINE.

Makes them feel more important to be prayed over in Latin. Requiem
mass. Crape weepers. Blackedged notepaper. Your name on the altarlist.
Chilly place this. Want to feed well, sitting in there all the morning in
the gloom kicking his heels waiting for the next please. Eyes of a toad
too. What swells him up that way? Molly gets swelled after cabbage. Air of
the place maybe. Looks full up of bad gas. Must be an infernal lot of bad
gas round the place. Butchers, for instance: they get like raw beefsteaks.
Who was telling me? Mervyn Browne. Down in the vaults of saint Werburgh's
lovely old organ hundred and fifty they have to bore a hole in the coffins
sometimes to let out the bad gas and burn it. Out it rushes: blue. One
whiff of that and you're a doner.

My kneecap is hurting me. Ow. That's better.

The priest took a stick with a knob at the end of it out of the boy's
bucket and shook it over the coffin. Then he walked to the other end and
shook it again. Then he came back and put it back in the bucket. As you
were before you rested. It's all written down: he has to do it.

--ET NE NOS INDUCAS IN TENTATIONEM.

The server piped the answers in the treble. I often thought it would be
better to have boy servants. Up to fifteen or so. After that, of
course ...

Holy water that was, I expect. Shaking sleep out of it. He must be fed
up with that job, shaking that thing over all the corpses they trot up.
What harm if he could see what he was shaking it over. Every mortal day a