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Yet John Paston had now lain for twelve years under the bareground. The Prior of Bromholm sent word that the grave-cloth was intatters, and he had tried to patch it himself. Worse still, for aproud woman like Margaret Paston, the country people murmured at thePastons' lack of piety, and other families she heard, of no greaterstanding than theirs, spent money in pious restoration in the verychurch where her husband lay unremembered. At last, turning fromtournaments and Chaucer and Mistress Anne Hault, Sir John bethoughthim of a piece of cloth of gold which had been used to cover hisfather's hearse and might now be sold to defray the expenses of histomb. Margaret had it in safe keeping; she had hoarded it and caredfor it, and spent twenty marks on its repair. She grudged it; butthere was no help for it. She sent it him, still distrusting hisintentions or his power to put them into effect. "If you sell it toany other use," she wrote, "by my troth I shall never trust you whileI live."
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But this final act, like so many that Sir John had undertaken inthe course of his life, was left undone. A dispute with the Duke ofSuffolk in the year 1479 made it necessary for him to visit London inspite of the epidemic of sickness that was abroad; and there, indirty lodgings, alone, busy to the end with quarrels, clamorous tothe end for money, Sir John died and was buried at Whitefriars inLondon. He left a natural daughter; he left a considerable number ofbooks; but his father's tomb was still unmade.