Walk Cafe

Gregor looks at Sara:

Gregor had idly watched the old, old woman struggle painfully up the Walk then enter the cafe. She didn’t quite seem to be all there. She’s not taking in the stories in her paper, he thinks. She’s not even touched her cup of tea — it must be cold by now. What’s the point? Why did she paint her face like Salvador Dali this morning?

Then she looks up at him and he sees behind the pancake layers. “My God! It’s her — she’s come at last. That’s my mother!”