Rose had a look of
invulnerability; perhaps she knew, but it was impossible to ask, and
if she knew, it had made no difference. It seemed as though she had
gone beyond the reach of feeling: she and Sophia both wore white
masks, but Sophia's was only a few hours old and Rose's had been
gradually assumed. It was not only Caroline's death which had given
her that strange, calm face: the expression had grown slowly, as
though something had been a long time dying, yet she hardly had a look
of loss. She seemed to be in possession of something, but Henrietta
could not understand what it was and she was vaguely afraid.
It was Aunt Sophia who, in spite of her amazing courage, had an air of
desolation. And there was no rouge on her cheeks: its absence made
Henrietta want to cry. She did cry at intervals throughout that day
and the ones that followed. It was terrible without Aunt Caroline and
pitiful to see Aunt Sophia keeping up her dignity among black-clothed,
black-beaded relatives who seemed to appear out of the ground like
snails after rain and who might have been part of the undertaker's
permanent stock-in-trade. Henrietta hated the mournful looks of these
ancient cousins, the shaking of their black beads, their sibilant
whisperings, and in their presence she was dry-eyed and rather rude.
Aunt Caroline would have laughed at them and their dowdy clothes that
smelt of camphor, but it seemed as though no one would ever laugh
again in Nelson Lodge.
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