She would not lose one memory or one pin.
She gave orders that nothing should be thrown away--and nothing was.
There, in drawer after drawer, in wardrobe after wardrobe, reposed the dresses of seventy years.

But not only the dresses--the furs and the mantles and subsidiary frills and the muffs and the parasols and the bonnets--all were ranged in chronological order, dated and complete.

A great cupboard was devoted to the dolls; in the china room at Windsor a special table held the mugs of her childhood, and her children's mugs as well.

Mementoes of the past surrounded her in serried accumulations.
In every room the tables were powdered thick with the photographs of relatives; their portraits, revealing them at all ages, covered the walls; their figures, in solid marble, rose up from pedestals, or gleamed from brackets in the form of gold and silver statuettes.

The dead, in every shape--in miniatures, in porcelain, in enormous life-size oil-paintings--were perpetually about her.