WETHERELL
Heigho! it would seem that we have not buried the biographee, after all. But I am sceptical. I remember no effigy. Unfold.
CLAY
Here we are at the porch. Just follow me.... (They go quietly in file through the north transept and ambulatory, and up the great steps of Henry the Seventh's Chapel.) There: to the right; inside, east end. How dark it is!
MRS. WETHERELL
Aren't you coming?
CLAY
No; if you will excuse me. Conceive of me as sentimental; I hate to step over that slab, or go by it, somehow.
WETHERELL