Except the Dying by Maureen Jennings

said.
    “You’re right there, Mother. I wasn’t thinking.”
    He coughed violently, then spat into the spittoon. There was a fleck of blood on his lower lip and his wife reached over and wiped it away as calmly as if he were a child with a crumb on his face.
    “Well, whoever or whatever she was, I’m sorry for her,” Beatrice continued. “So young. Somebody somewhere will be worrying.”
    She added a brown auger shell to the rim of the box.
    “Not necessarily at this moment, Mother,” said Arthur. “She could have come from the country. Her family might not be expecting to hear from her for a month or more.”
    “You could be right, Father. God rest her soul,” said Beatrice, and she blessed herself.
    “Amen to that,” said Murdoch, and he did likewise. There was silence in the room except for the soft hiss of the coals burning and the quiet tick of the mantel clock. Murdoch glanced over at Arthur, who was staring into the fire.
    “I almost forgot. There was something I wanted to ask you. What kind of dog is about this big?” He indicated with his hands. “Long-haired. Caramel-coloured with pop eyes and a squashed-in nose. Long ears.”
    Before he got sick, Kitchen had been quite a dog fancier. He considered for a minute. “Sounds like a Pekingese. Wouldn’t you say, Mother?”
    Beatrice nodded. “That or a King Charles.”
    “Not that colour. Why’d you ask, Bill?”
    “Just curious.”
    He related the story of Samuel Quinn and the Virgin Mary, although from delicacy he called her the proper name of Princess. Mrs. K. tutted and exclaimed several well-I-nevers, but they both were diverted by the tale.
    “I miss having a dog,” said Mrs. K. “And Arthur’s always wanted a greyhound, haven’t you, dear? As soon as he’s better we’ll get one.”
    Arthur nodded, the pretense hovering in the air like a miasma.
    Murdoch yawned. Time for bed. “Do you want more coal on?” he asked.
    “If you please. I must finish this box, and Arthur has promised to read to me.”
    Arthur grunted. “She says she wants to hear
Paradise Lost.
I told her it was written by a Protestant and she won’t understand a word, but she insists.”
    “You can explain what is necessary. You like doing that.”
    Murdoch smiled and started to load lumps of the black shiny coal into the red maw of the fire. The supply was low in the bucket and he made a note to himself to have some delivered for them. Then he shook hands good night and left.
    Beatrice had put a candle ready for him on the hall table, and he lit it from the sconce and went upstairs.
    Last summer, Murdoch had insisted on renting the extra room upstairs for a sitting room. It was a squeeze for him to manage on his wages but it helped out the Kitchens and he liked having the luxury of a separate place where he could sit and read if he wanted to. He went into that room first.
    It was simply furnished with a flowered velvet armchair and matching footstool, a sideboard and two lamp tables. The oilcloth-covered floor was softened with a woven rag rug courtesy of Mrs. Kitchen.
    He placed his candlestick on the sideboard, then bent down and rolled the rug back to the wall. Even though it was getting late he had to do his practice before he went to bed.
    Two years ago last June, his fiancée, Elizabeth Milner, had contracted typhoid. Within five days she was dead, gone as quickly as a shadow on the lawn. He mourned silently, deeply. Still did. But he was a healthy, vigorous man and of late his body had begun to clamour for normal satisfaction. Many a night he tossed restlessly, listening to the church bell mark out each hour untilthe dawn seeped over the sleeping city, blotting up the darkness, and he sought a relief that not even the threat of confession could stop.
    Shortly before Christmas he decided he had to make some attempt at renewing a social life and enrolled in a dance class given by a Professor Mansfield Otranto. The professor was evasive about his educational