But she disapproved more and more of her own mental austerity. Meat pies with sweet crust were stuffed with macaroni, steaks of pork and beef were pounded thin and grilled rare, capons had been marinated in plum wine and cinnamon, and veal sausages stewed in cream were served over fine noodles: all the dishes that he loved were present. It had seemed to her that life might be very good indeed with his kindliness and sacrifice about her. Buried under various ancestral sixteenths, smothered under modern thought, liberty of action and bewildering variety of flesh-pots, it was still alive to the extent that it needed only his present state to resuscitate it in all its peculiar force. The third item she took with a trembling hand by its waistbelt. It’s just hard to keep things from her. It was bleeding again. “Life’s so queer,” she said, kneeling and looking into the flames. Some day I'm going to paint her; but that will be when I've retired.
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