She could see her mother's face on the pillow, glimmering, with shut eyes. At each sound she could hear her draw a shaking, sobbing breath. She turned to her and took her in her arms. The small, stiff body yielded to her, helpless, like a child's.
"Oh Mary, what shall I do? To send him away like that—in a train—all the way…. Your Grandmamma Olivier tried to keep him from me, and now he's gone back to her."
"You've got Mark."
"What's that you say?"
"Mark. Mark. Nobody can keep Mark from you. He'll never want anybody but you. He said so."
How small she was. You could feel her little shoulder-blades, weak and fine under your fingers, like a child's; you could break them. To be happy with her either you or she had to be broken, to be helpless and little like a child. It was a sort of happiness to lie there, holding her, hiding her from the dreadful funeral dawn.
Five o'clock.
The funeral would last till three, going along the road to Reyburn Station, going in the train from Reyburn to Durlingham, from Durlingham to King's Cross. She wondered whether Dan and Roddy would keep on feeling the funeral all the time. The train was part of it. Not the worst part. Not so bad as going through the East End to the City of London Cemetery.
When it came to the City of London Cemetery her mind stopped with a jerk and refused to follow the funeral any further.
Ten o'clock. Eleven.