He frowned upon the children, ordering them away. But suddenly he
discovered an acquaintance, the driver of an express-wagon that had just
driven up with an enormous anchor of violets. He paused, exclaiming:
"Why, hello, Connors!"
"Why, hello, Mister Brodhead!"
Then a long conversation was begun, the policeman standing on the
curbstone, one foot resting upon the hub of a wheel, the expressman
leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, twirling his whip between his
hands. The expressman told some sort of story, pointing with his elbow
toward the house, but the other was incredulous, gravely shaking his
head, putting his chin in the air, and closing his eyes.
Inside the house itself there was a hushed and subdued bustling that
centred about a particular room. The undertaker's assistants and the
barber called in low voices through the halls for basins of water and
towels. There was a search for the Old Gentleman's best clothes and his
clean linen; bureau drawers were opened and shut, closet doors softly
closed. Relatives and friends called and departed or stayed to help.
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