St. Mawr by D. H. Lawrence:
In the morning she found her mother sitting at a window watching a funeral. It was raining heavily, so that some of the mourners even wore mackintosh coats. The funeral was in the poorer corner of the churchyard, where another new grave was covered with wreaths of sodden, shrivelling flowers. The yellowish coffin stood on the wet earth, in the rain: the curate held his hat, in a sort of permanent salute, above his head, like a little umbrella, as he hastened on with the service. The people seemed too wet to weep more wet.
It was a long coffin.
“Mother, do you really like watching?” asked Lou irritably, as Mrs. Witt sat in complete absorption.
“I do, Louise, I really enjoy it.”