COMING HOME
"No. No."
Rosalind slammed the door on the angry mutterings, and heard with a sense of desolation Emma go downstairs. The silver clock by Darlingest's bed ticked; it was five o'clock. They had tea at a quarter-past four; Darlingest was never, never late. When they came to tell her about It, men would come, and they would tell Emma, and Emma would come up with a frightened, triumphant face and tell her.
She saw the grey-gloved hands spread out in the dust.
A sound at the gate. "I can't bear it, I can't bear it. Oh, save me, God!"
Steps on the gravel.
Darlingest.
She was at the window, pressing her speechless lips together.
Darlingest came slowly up the path with the long ends of her veil, untied, hanging over her shoulders. A paper parcel was pressed between her arm and her side. She paused, stood smiling down at the daffodils. Then she looked up with a start at the windows, as though she heard somebody
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