"And what about us? In what sort of a position do you think it places us?... Think a little. People will see you suddenly running away as if we had refused to take you in. What do you think we'll be taken for? And you, my goodness! How will it look for a young woman to go away all by herself, on an adventure?"
Her face was purple, her voice came out in a rush, her arms extended beyond her shadow. She was quite beside herself.
I don't know what made me do it, whether my worn nerves or my terror at always, no matter what I did, seeing a gulf yawn between us—I burst into tears.
With her stubborn patience my mother often went to extremes, but she could not resist the argument of tears. She was taken aback. I had conquered. She put her arms round me in a large, warm, cradling embrace, planted short little kisses all over my hair, comforted me in my distress. "Come, dear, don't cry, don't cry."
I made a tremendous effort to shake off a frightful impression. If I had had to pay with my life to get rid of it, I would have paid with my life. But drop by drop the poison filtered into my heart and changed it into a bitter heart which seemed unlike my own.
With all the appearance of humility in her drooping shoulders and bowed head, armed with the tricky sweetness of a person accustomed to yielding, my mother drew our chairs closer together and tried to console me at any price by talking of something else. She held out her needlework.
"A tray-cover. I noticed you haven't got one.... Rows of hemstitching with a square of filet in the centre. Do you like it?"
I dabbed my eyes, forced a smile, and leaned over to watch her draw the threads. "Wonderful," I said, "marvellously fine, and such tedious work." I forced myself to fill up the gaps in the conversation.
The evening flagged slowly and gently. The oil in the lamp was giving out. A drowse gradually laid itself upon the delicate maternal face; under the scant light beginning to smell of smoke, it looked almost like a mummy's.
She is asleep now.