A few words, a sprinkle of earth, the thrusting of the coffin home, and
Aunt Ann had passed to her last rest.
Round the vault, trustees of that passing, the five brothers stood, with
white heads bowed; they would see that Ann was comfortable where she
was going. Her little property must stay behind, but otherwise, all that
could be should be done....
Then severally, each stood aside, and putting on his hat, turned back to
inspect the new inscription on the marble of the family vault:
SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF ANN FORSYTE,
THE DAUGHTER OF THE ABOVE JOLYON AND ANN FORSYTE,
WHO DEPARTED THIS LIFE THE 27TH DAY OF SEPTEMBER, 1886,
AGED EIGHTY-SEVEN YEARS AND FOUR DAYS
Soon perhaps, someone else would be wanting an inscription. It was
strange and intolerable, for they had not thought somehow, that Forsytes
could die. And one and all they had a longing to get away from this
painfulness, this ceremony which had reminded them of things they could
not bear to think about--to get away quickly and go about their business
and forget.
It was cold, too; the wind, like some slow, disintegrating force,
blowing up the hill over the graves, struck them with its chilly breath;
they began to split into groups, and as quickly as possible to fill the
waiting carriages.
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