'Oh, darling child, it's sad news.... I don't know how to tell you.... Dear, you must be brave....'
'Oh, do get on,' muttered Alix, rude and sick.
'Dearie,' Mrs. Frampton was crying into her handkerchief. 'Poor Paul ... your dear little brother ... dreadfully, badly wounded....'
'Dead,' Alix stated flatly, pulling away and leaning against the wall.
Violette was hot and smelt of food. Florence stumbled up the kitchen stairs with supper. From a long way off Mrs. Frampton sobbed, 'The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away.... It's the Almighty's will.... The poor dear boy has died doing his duty and serving his country ... a noble end, dearie ... not a wasted life....'
'Not a wasted....' Alix said it after her mechanically, as if it was a foreign language.
'He died a noble death,' said Mrs. Frampton, 'serving his country in her need.'
Alix was staring at her with blue eyes suddenly dark and distended. The horror rose and loomed over her, like a great wave towering, just going to break.
'But—but—but—' she stammered, and put out her hands, keeping it off—'But he hadn't lived yet....'
Then the wave broke, like a storm crashing on a ship at sea.