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

"Let me wipe him!" --and she kneeled on the other side
and slowly dried him as Elizabeth washed, her big black bonnet
sometimes brushing the dark head of her daughter. They
worked thus in silence for a long time, lovingly, with meticulous
care. Sometimes they forgot it was death, and the touch of
the man's body gave them strange thrills, different in each of
the women; secret thrills that made them turn one from the
other, and left them with a keen sadness.

At last it was finished. He was a man of handsome figure
and genial face, which showed traces of the disfigurement of
drink. He was blonde, full-fleshed, with fine round limbs.

"Bless him," whispered his mother, looking always at his
face, "he looks as if he was just waking up. He's smiling a bit,
bless him. Look, he's smiling a bit, just in his old way----"
She spoke in a faint, sibilant rapture.

Elizabeth sank down again to the floor, and put her face
against his neck, and sobbed till she was tired. The old woman
wept too, slow noiseless tears, touching him, regarding him
with endless fondness and unwearying interest.

"White as milk he is, clear as a twelvemonth baby, bless
him, the darling!" she whispered to herself. "Not a mark
on him, clear and clean and white, as beautiful as ever a child
was made," she murmured with pride. Elizabeth kept her face
hidden, sobbing.

"He went peaceful, Lizzie -- as peaceful as sleep. Look,
Lizzie, he's smiling a bit; and he knew how to laugh, he did,
when I had him. That hearty! He's my lad again now,
Lizzie."

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