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A funeral is a depressing affair under the best circumstances, but a funeral in a lonely farm-house in March, the roads full of slush, the ragged gray clouds leaping the sullen hills like eagles, is tragic. The teams arrived splashed with mud, the women blue with cold under their scanty cotton-quilt lap robes, their hats set awry by the wind.
A hillman walked behind him with a wadded cotton-quilt and spread it carefully by the fire. 'She deserves ten thousand grandchildren, thought Kim. 'None the less, but for me, those gifts would not have come. 'A virtuous woman and a wise one. The lama slackened off, joint by joint, like a slow camel.
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