— — —Daisy Arrow had been taken to St. Pancras mortuary. Belle, from behind the dirty muslin curtain on the slack string, watched her go in the twilight of the Christmas afternoon. It was a journey that she had thought to have taken herself, and about at this time.
Yesterday, when she had sat over the food she could not eat, in the dingy dressing-room under the stage of the Cambridge, she had considered just such a scene — the parish undertaker’s men, the poor hearse, the knot of curious gazers, ragged boys, lounging men, slatternly women, the swathes of yellow fog, darkening in the winter sky of the brief daylight — all a rough, fairly clean-made pattern. But she had pictured herself, Belle, inside the hearse, with that same necklet about her throat, with that same unmeaning stare in her
