A SHEAF OF MEMORIES It was over.

The master of Barrow had been carried shoulder-high to the great vault where countless Lovells slept their last sleep, the blinds had been drawn up, letting in the wintry sunlight once again, and the mourners had gone their ways.

Only the new owner of the Court still lingered, and even he would be leaving very soon now.
Sara, her slim, boyish build, with its long line of slender hip, accentuated by the clinging black of her gown, moved listlessly across the hall to where Major Durward was standing smoking by the big open fire, waiting for the car which was to take him to the station.
He made as though to throw his cigarette away at her approach, but she gestured a hasty negative.
"No, don't," she said.

"I like it.

It seems to make things a little more natural.