The black coffin was put on the ground. The priest mechanically read over it the Latin prayer. “My childl My child!” a hoarse, heart-rending woman’s voice bitterly lamented, ending in pitiful sobs.
“The end, the end!” whispered Lucy.
The thud of the clod against the boards of the coffin fell heavily upon her soul. A feverish longing to see him once more took possession of her, and she pushed her way to the grave, and looked down: the dark clay was striking against his coffin . . . he disappeared forever, forever, forever. . . .
On the other side a few women were supporting his old mother. She did not stop sobbing. . . . The shovel went from hand to hand . . . each lifted with it a little clay and threw it down into the grave. . . . It resounded against the coffin. Others threw in some clay with their hands. A woman handed the shovel to Lucy: “Do you want it?” she asked her timidly.
