Page 42 - sons-and-lovers

put his pit-clothes on the hearth to warm, set his pit-boots
beside them, put him out a clean scarf and snap-bag and
two apples, raked the fire, and went to bed. He was already
dead asleep. His narrow black eyebrows were drawn up in
a sort of peevish misery into his forehead while his cheeks’
down-strokes, and his sulky mouth, seemed to be saying: ‘I
don’t care who you are nor what you are, I SHALL have my
own way.’
Mrs. Morel knew him too well to look at him. As she
unfastened her brooch at the mirror, she smiled faintly to
see her face all smeared with the yellow dust of lilies. She
brushed it off, and at last lay down. For some time her mind
continued snapping and jetting sparks, but she was asleep
before her husband awoke from the first sleep of his drunk-
enness.

1