The idea of life was so strong within her that she pictured death as a hideous life.

Afraid of death, she prayed for a long life.

Kneeling, with bowed head, the voluptuous ashen cloud of her buoyant hair falling over her forehead, she, a profane penitent, was reading in her prayer-book words which reassured her, although she did not understand them.
"Lord Jesus Christ, King of Glory, deliver the souls of all the faithful dead from the pains of hell and from the depths of the bottomless pit.
Deliver them from the lion's jaws.

Let them not be plunged into hell, and let them not fall into the outer darkness, but suffer that St.
Michael, the Prince of Angels, lead them to the holy light promised by Thee to Abraham and to his posterity." At the Elevation of the Host the congregation, permeated by a vague impression that the mystery was becoming more sacred, ceased its private conversations, and assumed a certain appearance of reverent devotion.
And as the organ fell silent all heads were bowed at the tinkling of a little bell which was shaken by a child.

Then, after the last Gospel, when, the service being over, the priest, attended by his acolytes, approached the catafalque to the chanting of the _Libera_, a sense of relief was experienced by the crowd, and they began to jostle one another a little in order to file past the coffin.