The mother, Cathy Beck, was as patient and as charitable of an individual that Lucy had ever known, a big kindly Polish-American woman with the heart of an angel. The evening was warm and inviting, one meant to be spent outdoors. She cried for hours but would not scream as her mother was packed into a marble coffin. "You needn't gag me," he added, "I'll not cry out. "Because it's not like you," was her answer. ‘Beg pardon, miss, but I’m told as how—’ She broke off, her eyes widening, her jaw dropping open. “What can one do?” asked Ann Veronica. He thought of his wealth for once from a different point of view. She could feel her body rebel against her actions, convulsing, so she forced herself to think of her mother in Heaven, her mother's beautiful face, the sun dancing across the rivers of her home. She got a bun and some cocoa in the little refreshment-room, and then wandered through the galleries up-stairs, crowded with Polynesian idols and Polynesian dancinggarments, and all the simple immodest accessories to life in Polynesia, to a seat among the mummies.
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