Her cheeks were the colour of chalk, her eyes were filled with terror. She lived, he noted, very carelessly. “We don’t pretend. “My sister and I,” she said slowly, “have seen very little of each other lately. Presently. I did not even know where to write and thank you. Her cheeks burned for a moment or two when she reached the street, although she held her head upright and walked blithely, even humming to herself fragments of an old French song. The funeral procession had now approached the grave, around which many of the congregation, who were deeply interested by the sad ceremonial, had gathered. His face was white.
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