COMING HOME
her throat, like a puppy, felt her swollen face distorted by another paroxysm.
"I can't bear it, I can't bear it. What have I done? I did love her, I did so awfully love her.
"Perhaps she was all right when I came in; coming home smiling. Then I stopped loving her, I hated her and was angry. And it happened. She was crossing a road and something happened to her. I was angry and she died. I killed her.
"I don't know that she's dead. I'd better get used to believing it, it will hurt less afterwards. Supposing she does come back this time; it's only for a little. I shall never be able to keep her; now I've found out about this I shall never be happy. Life's nothing but waiting for awfulness to happen and trying to think about something else.
"If she could come back just this once—Darlingest."
Emma came half-way upstairs; Rosalind flattened herself behind the door.
"Will you begin your tea. Miss Rosie?"
"No. Where's mother?"
"I didn't hear her go out. I have the kettle boiling—will I make your tea?"
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