She could feel her body rebel against her actions, convulsing, so she forced herself to think of her mother in Heaven, her mother's beautiful face, the sun dancing across the rivers of her home. If only sometimes he would grow angry at her, impatient! But his tender courtesy was unfailing; and under this would be the abiding bitterness of having mistaken gratitude for love. ‘The old man who lives here, idiot. She had killed him. They went on talking in the train—it seemed to her father a slight want of deference to him—and he listened and pretended to read the Times. Perhaps it had been pick-pocketed or jostled from her dress in a hunt.
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