However, towards the end of the funeral, and on hearing some slight rustle behind me, I half-turned, discreetly and caught a glimpse of another mourner; a woman, who must have slipped into the church after we of the funeral party had taken our places and who stood several rows behind and quite alone, very erect and still, and not holding a prayer book. She was dressed in deepest black, in the style of full mourning that had rather gone out of fashion except, I imagined, in court circles on the most formal of occasions. Indeed, it had clearly been dug out of some old trunk or wardrobe, for its blackness was a little rust looking. A bonnet-type had covered her head and shaded her face, but, although I did not stare, even the swift glance I took of the woman showed me enough to recognise that she was suffering from some terrible wasting disease, for not only was she extremely pale, even more than a contrast with her black garments could account for, but the skin and, it seemed only the thinnest layer of flesh was tautly stretched and strained across her bones, so that it gleamed with a curious, blue-white sheen, and her eyes seemed sunken back into her head. Her hands that rested on the pew before her were in a similar state, as though she had been a victim of starvation.
Though not a medical expert, I had heard of certain conditions which caused such terrible wasting and ravages of the flesh, and knew that they were generally regarded as incurable, and it seemed poignant that a woman, who was perhaps only a short time from death, should drag herself to her funeral of another.
Following the parson and the coffin outside I soon realised that the unknown woman had slipped quickly away and gone out to the waiting open grave. Her appearance, even in the limpid sunshine and comparative warmth and brightness of the outdoors, was so pathetically wasted, so pale and gaunt with disease, that it should not have been a kindness to gaze upon her.