“Some mightn’t,” poor Peneluna had said to Aunt Polly in defence of Sniff.
As far as any one knew the crabbed old man never spoke to his devoted neighbour, but she had never complained.
“I wonder what happened before they came here?” After all the years of taking the strange condition for granted, it sprang into quickened life. Mary-Clare was soon to know and it had a bearing upon her own highly sensitive state.
She made her way to the far end of the Point, passing wide-eyed children at play and curious women in doorways.
“Philander’s dead!” The words were like an accompaniment, passing from lip to lip. “An’ she won’t let a soul in.” This was added.
“She will presently,” Mary-Clare reassured them. “She’ll need you all, later.”
There was a little plot of grass between Peneluna’s shack and Philander’s and a few scraggy autumn flowers edged a well-worn path from one back door to the other!
At Philander’s front door Mary-Clare knocked and Peneluna responded at once. She was dressed as Jan-an had described, and for a moment Mary-Clare had difficulty in stifling her inclination to laugh.
The gaunt old woman was in the rusty black she had kept in readiness for years; she wore gloves and bonnet; the long crêpe veil and the absurd red rose wobbled dejectedly as Peneluna moved about.
“Come in, child, and shut the world out.” Then, leading the way to an inner room, “Have yer got both services?”