Ah, so the fellow was of some use! Barnaby plucked the word from him at once, making use of the silence that had lingered to turn it over in his mind until the clay lumps of feelings he was trying to express had fallen into better form.
The tune for it was not yet clear, but Miss Chevalier would be set in song ere long. “And for any man who feels / Her softest touch, it is too much / She wounds where'er she heals,” Barnaby half-murmured, half-sang, and then, leaving himself to muse upon it a while longer, squinted at the man again. “Gramercy, my good man. A fine suggestion. A fine day, too, is it not?” Barnaby added cordially (though in utter negligence of any particularly sorrowful reasons the Living might be lurking around the cemetery alone).
The tune for it was not yet clear, but Miss Chevalier would be set in song ere long. “And for any man who feels / Her softest touch, it is too much / She wounds where'er she heals,” Barnaby half-murmured, half-sang, and then, leaving himself to muse upon it a while longer, squinted at the man again. “Gramercy, my good man. A fine suggestion. A fine day, too, is it not?” Barnaby added cordially (though in utter negligence of any particularly sorrowful reasons the Living might be lurking around the cemetery alone).
