A day or two before the burial--I think it was a day or two before, but I am conscious of confusion in my mind about that heavy time, with nothing to mark its progress--she took me into the room.

I only recollect that underneath some white covering on the bed, with a beautiful cleanliness and freshness all around it, there seemed to me to lie embodied the solemn stillness that was in the house; and that when she would have turned the cover gently back, I cried: 'Oh no! oh no!' and held her hand.
If the funeral had been yesterday, I could not recollect it better.

The very air of the best parlour, when I went in at the door, the bright condition of the fire, the shining of the wine in the decanters, the patterns of the glasses and plates, the faint sweet smell of cake, the odour of Miss Murdstone's dress, and our black clothes.

Mr.Chillip is in the room, and comes to speak to me.
'And how is Master David ?' he says, kindly.
I cannot tell him very well.

I give him my hand, which he holds in his.
'Dear me!' says Mr.Chillip, meekly smiling, with something shining in his eye.