“Feeling,” said Edwin. “What do you know about feeling?”
“Steady, Edwin, steady,” from Uncle Albert.
“If mother were here,” he said, “and could hear you talking this damned piffle she’d laugh at you. That’s what she’d do.”
“Edwin!”
“It’s true. . . . She couldn’t stick your sort of grief at any price.”
“On the very day of her burial. . . .”
“She’s not buried. It wasn’t she you buried. Oh, I’m sick of you. . . .”
“Edwin . . .” said Uncle Albert, who felt that something in the way of protection was demanded of him. “Really now . . .”
“Oh, I don’t mean you, uncle,” said Edwin.
“You cruel boy,” Aunt Laura sobbed.