She was getting Edith's mourning.
"There's a love of a hat at Thurn's," she was saying softly, "if only we can get her to wear it.

It's just her type." And Laura drew an anxious breath.

"Anything," she added, "to escape that hideous heavy crepe." Roger slightly raised his brows.

He noticed a faint delicious perfume that irritated him suddenly.

But glancing again at his daughter, trim, fresh and so immaculate, the joy of life barely concealed in her eyes, he stopped and talked and smiled at her, as Deborah was doing, enjoying her beauty and her youth, her love and all her happiness.