"It's bad news, Miss Mary."
"Your Brother Died This Evening."
Her heart stopped, staggered and went on again. "Poona"—Mark—
"Your Brother Died This Evening.—SYMONDS."
"This evening" was yesterday. Mark had died yesterday.
Her heart stopped again. She had a sudden feeling of suffocation and sickness.
Her mind left off following the sprawl of the thick grey-black letters on the livid pink form.
It woke again to the extraordinary existence of Miss Horn's parlour. It went back to Mark, slowly, by the way it had come, by the smell of the lamp, by the orange envelope on the maroon cloth.
Mark. And something else.
Mamma—Mamma. She would have to know.