Page "Gormenghast (series)" Paragraph 36

... she is so minute, so frightened, so old, so querulous, she neither could, nor would, head any procession, even on paper.

Her peevish cry goes out: " Oh, my weak heart!

How could they?

" and she hurries to Fuchsia either to smack the abstracted girl in order to ease herself, or to bury the wrinkled prune of her face in Fuchsia's side.

Alone in her small room again, she lies upon her bed and bites her minute knuckles.