("Why did I do it? Why did I smash it all up? Uncle Victor suicided.
That's what I've done…. I've killed myself…. This isn't me.")
"If that's what comes of your publishing I'd rather your books were sunk to the bottom of the sea. I'd rather see you in your coffin."
"I am in my coffin."
"I wish I were in mine," her mother said.
* * * * *
Mamma was getting up from her chair, raising herself slowly by her arms.
Mary stooped to pick up the pocket-handkerchief. "Don't, Mamma; I've got it."
Mamma went on stooping. Sinking, sliding down sideways, clutching at the edge of the table.
Mary saw terror, bright, animal terror, darting up to her out of Mamma's eyes, and in a place by themselves the cloth sliding, the lamp rocking and righting itself.
She was dragging her up by her armpits, holding her up. Mamma's arms were dangling like dolls' arms.