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137
The Solitary Summer
·
Elizabeth Von Arnim
90
"A
shroud?"
It
was
her
turn
not
to
understand.
"A
sheet
sort
of
thing."
She
smiled
in
a
highly
superior
manner.
"Oh
dear,
no,"
she
said,
"we
are
none
of
us
quite
so
poor
as
that."
I
glanced
down
at
her
as
she
walked
beside
me.
She
is
a
short
woman,
and
carries
weight.
She
was
smiling
almost
pityingly
at
my
ignorance
of
what
is
due,
even
after
death,
to
ourselves
and
public
opinion.
"The
very
poorest,"
she
said,
"manage
to
scrape
a
whole
set
of
clothes
together
for
their
funerals.
A
very
poor
couple
came
here
a
few
months
ago,
and
before
the
man
had
time
to
earn
anything
he
died.
The
wife
came
to
me
(the
gracious
lady
was
absent),
and
on
her
knees
implored
me
to
give
her
a
suit
for
him--she
had
only
been
able
to
afford
the
Sterbehemd,
and
was
frantic
at
the
thought
of
what
the
neighbours
would
say
if
he
had
nothing
on
but
that,
and
said
she
would
be
haunted
by
shame
and
remorse
all
the
rest
of
her
life.
We
bought
a
nice
black
suit,
and
tie,
and
gloves,
and
he
really
looked
very
well.
She
will
be
dressed
to-night,"
she
went
on,
as
I
said
nothing;
"the
dressers
come
with
the
coffin,
and
it
will
be
a
nice
funeral.
I
used
to
wonder
what
she
did
with
her
pension
money,
and
never
could
persuade
her
to
buy
herself
a
bit
of
meat.
But
of
course
she
was
saving
for
this.
They
are
beautiful
corsets."
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