On the journey back to Ferndale both father and mother were silent, actuated by that tug of jealousy against sympathy which a strong common emotion begets in familiar rather than passionate companions. They were above the ordinary sentimentalities of grass-bereavement (above choking over small shoes found in cupboards): but not above a rather strong dose of the natural instincts of parenthood, Frederic no less than his wife.
But when they were nearly home, Mrs. Thornton began to chuckle to herself.
“Funny little thing, Emily! Did you notice almost the last thing she said? She said ‘I’ve got an earthquake.’ She must have got it mixed up in her silly old head with earache.”
There was a long pause: and then she remarked again:
“John is so much the most sensitive: he was absolutely too full to speak.”