And although there was a small part of his consciousness that wanted to resist – strictly on a satyagraha basis, of course, for he knew deep within himself that violence, or indeed anything which even hinted at it, would not be well-regarded in this small village, which some process of balkanization seemed to have separated it from and quite isolated it from even it's nearest neighbours – Ezekiel adopted the dry, sere, formulaic, and very manly tone of speech he heard around him in the packed bar, while he thought himself foolish to object, for after all, what exactly could it be that he objected to? not, surely, the friendly regard in which his companions held him? not the fact which quickly revealed itself to him, that this convivial gathering was a regular, in all probability nightly, event, in which very much the same things were spoken of, by the same people, sometimes even giving a reply to a question asked the night before, the answer to which was known even before the enquiry was made, it was all so convivial, that Ezekiel was not even certain why he should want to resist, if that were even possible, which he honestly doubted; there seemed to be no preppers here, in this noisy, smoky, close-pressed gathering, just an unspoken acceptance that what was, was – and still is; and then the baker came closer to him and asked if he had heard about Soft Mick's accident? and Ezekiel nodded: "fell off a ladder, as I hear, was no-one meant to be holding it steady?" and the baker nodded: "according to the Rector, it were sposed to have been Lamplighter, but he'd been stung by a bee and had to go to Nurse Mariah, and Mick hadn't noticed, so he went up it and it weren't close enough to the corner and when he leaned, it slid away an he landed on his head! dead!"