The holy man walked to the edge of the dais, stopped, put his hands behind his back, and looked at the congregation; a white and wooden grin creased the beard that sprouted like foliage from his face. T.W. walked Beatrice to Minister Orton, who then delicately took her left hand and led her to James. Presently, the sheriff walked away from the dais and sat in the aisle seat of the front right pew, beneath which he had earlier secreted the box that contained the shawl and the revolver.
Meredith took T.W.’s hand, squeezed fondly, and kissed his cheek. These affections helped dull the unexpectedly sharp pangs of melancholy that the act of handing over his daughter had engendered. The crone wove a difficult counterpoint upon the piano, and for a moment, the sheriff thought that he heard a dim
