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She held her ground while the shadows in the rickyard moved toward noon; sat after a while on the steps by the door, her arms round the dog's neck, waiting till some one should come. She watched the smokeless chimneys of Friars Pardon slash its roofs with shadow, and the smoke of Iggulden's last lighted fire gradually thin and cease.
"I want to see if any more Lashmars are buried here," said Sophie. "Not now. This seems to be show day. Come home quickly," he replied. A group of families, the Clokes a little apart, opened to let them through. The men saluted with jerky nods, the women with remnants of a curtsey. Only Iggulden's son, his mother on his arm, lifted his hat as Sophie passed.
When Sophie walked back across the fields heaven and earth changed about her as on the day of old Iggulden's death. For an instant she thought of the wide turn of the staircase, and the new ivory-white paint that no coffin corner could scar, but presently, the shadow passed in a pure wonder and bewilderment that made her reel.
Ought I to go to poor Iggulden's funeral?" She sighed with utter happiness. "Wouldn't they call it a liberty now?" said he. "But I liked him." "But you didn't own him at the date of his death." "That wouldn't keep me away. Only, they made such a fuss about the watching" she caught her breath "it might be ostentatious from that point of view, too.
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