“Where?”
“A drunken man in the lane.”
“If people would only take the water inside and the rum outside, sort of turnin’ things round, it would be much better, better,” said Aunt Stanshy, going to the window. She gave one look and came back to her ironing. Charlie thought he heard her sigh. He had already noticed that Aunt Stanshy never made fun of drunken people.
“Who is it?” he asked.
She did not answer, but taking up her flat-iron again, pounded the clothes with it vigorously, as if trying to call attention from herself to her work.
“Is she crying?” thought Charlie.
As if wet with her tears, her spectacles gleamed sharply. The muscles of her arms swelled as she pounded the innocent sheet before her, and Charlie was reluctant to ask again. For some time there was silence, the only interrupting sound being Aunt Stanshy’s pound—pound—pound. Charlie sat in his chair, looking steadily out upon the somber, dripping rain.
“Don’t you want to play something?”
It was Aunt Stanshy speaking. A troubled look on her face had passed away and she was ironing quietly again.
“Yes;” said Charlie, “you—you sick?”