D. H. Lawrence's 'Odour of Chrysanthemums'

and put it in the dresser cupboard. She would do no more of
it that night; this also she knew. When she had finished all
her tasks, she sat down. It was a few minutes past nine. She
was startled by the rapid chuff of the winding-engine at the
pit, and the sharp whirr of the brakes on the rope as it descended.
Again she felt the painful sharp sweep of her blood, and she
put her hand to her side, saying aloud, "Good gracious!--it's
only the nine o'clock deputy* going down," rebuking herself.

She sat still, listening, her whole body gripped in suspense.
Half an hour of this, and she was wearied out.

"What am I working myself up like this for?" she said
pitiably to herself, "I s'll only be doing myself some damage."

She did not mean herself alone.

What could she do to occupy herself? She took out her
sewing again, but it was a pit singlet* , and the thought of that
took away her energy. She would have liked to begin and
make some cake--but she couldn't have those things about
when somebody was coming in. So she began to patch the
elbow of one of the boy's coat-sleeves.

At a quarter to ten there were footsteps. She sat quite
still, listening. One person! She watched for the door to
open. It was an elderly woman, in a black bonnet and a black
woollen shawl--his mother. This was a short woman of sixty
or thereabouts, pale, with blue eyes, and her face all shapen to
lines of old lamentation and self-commiseration. She shut the
door and came straight to her daughter, and put her old hand
on the other's strong, capable hands.

"Eh, Lizzie, whatever shall we do, whatever shall we do!"
she wailed.

Elizabeth drew back a little, sharply.

"What is it, mother?" she said.

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