"None of us ever get what we want in this world," said Mamma.
She thought: "It was her son—her son she loved, not Mark's real, secret self. He's got away from her at last—altogether."
V.
She sewed.
Every day she went to the linen cupboard and gathered up all the old towels and sheets that wanted mending, and she sewed.
Her mother had a book in her lap. She noticed that if she left off sewing Mamma would take up the book and read, and when she began again she would put it down.
Her thoughts went from Mamma to Mark, from Mark to Mamma. She used to
be pleased when she saw you sewing. "Nothing will ever please her now.
She'll never be happy again…. I ought to have died instead of Mark….
That's Anthony Trollope she's reading."
The long sheet kept slipping. It dragged on her arm. Her arms felt swollen, and heavy like bars of lead. She let them drop to her knees…. Little Mamma.
She picked up the sheet again.
"Why are you sewing, Mary?"