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

we can get him home.' I hadn't time to ask him a word, afore
he was gone. An' I put my bonnet on an' come straight down
to you, Lizzie. I thought to myself, 'Eh, that poor blessed
child, if anybody should come an' tell her of a sudden, there's
no tellin' what'll 'appen to 'er.' You mustn't let it upset you,
Lizzie--you mustn't child. Think of that poor little thing as
isn't here by six months--or is it five, Lizzie? Ay!"--the
old woman shook her head--"time slips on, it slips on! Ay!
How long is it since you had 'im, Lizzie?"

Elizabeth's thoughts were busy elsewhere. If he was killed
--would she be able to manage on the little pension and what
she could earn?--she counted up rapidly. If he was hurt--
they wouldn't take him to the hospital--how tiresome he would
be to nurse!--but perhaps she'd get him away from the drink
and his hateful ways. She would--while he was ill. The tears
came to her eyes at the picture. Then in thought she arose once
more--he had killed her "sentiment"--and began to consider
the children. At any rate she was absolutely necessary for them;
she must save herself for them. She clung to the thought of the
children; and, covering the ugly image of him, rose her pity,
a deep womanly pity, which is only akin to love when its object
is physically struck down. He would be weak, and she would
have him in her hands. Then she was full of tenderness. Her
mother startled her. She captured the echo of the question.

"How long? It's eight years come Christmas."

"Eight years!" repeated the old woman, "an' it seems but
a week or two since he brought me his first wages. Ay--he was
a good lad, Elizabeth, he was a good lad. I don't know--I
don't know why he got such a trouble, I don't. He was a good
lad at home, a dear lad. But there's no mistake he's been a
handful o' trouble, a handful o' trouble, he has! I hope the

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