Mame is sitting on the stool beside it, in the glow of the flaming coal, outstretching her hands, clinging to the warmth.
Entering, I see the bowl of her back.

Her lean neck has a cracked look and is white as a bone.

Musingly, my aunt takes and holds a pair of idle tongs.

I take my seat.

Mame does not like the silence in which I wrap myself.