"Mary, when you look at me like that I feel as if you knew everything I'm thinking."
"I don't. I shall never know."
Supposing all the time she knew what you were thinking? Supposing Mark knew? Supposing the dead knew?
She was glad of the aching of her heart that dragged her thought down and numbed it.
The January twilight crept between them. She put down her sewing. At the stroke of the clock her mother stirred in her chair.
"What day of the month is it?" she said.
"The twenty-fifth."
"Then—yesterday was your birthday…. Poor Mary. I forgot…. I sit here, thinking. My own thoughts. They make me forget…. Come here."
She went to her, drawn by a passion stronger than her passion for Mark, her hard, proud passion for Mark.
Her mother put up her face. She stooped down and kissed her passionately, on her mouth, her wet cheeks, her dove's eyes, her dove's eyelids. She crouched on the floor beside her, leaning her head against her lap. Mamma's hand held it there.