“They say the plate on the coffin was more’n filled with money,” added Betty.
“Aye, it was,” said Olwyn; “there was more’n enough to pay both the doctor an’ the minister. It does the town good to have a lot of folks here. They wasn’t all interested in Jane Wynne, but they was interested in seein’ which’d die first, an’ in the hearse. I suppose they wanted to come an’ make sure she really was dead. Well, you never did better by Bryn Tirion, Griffith.”
“Aye,” said Griffith, tapping his finger-tips together and smiling contentedly at the row of big-eyed, whiskered cats, “aye, it’s an assistance.”
[Dreams in Jeopardy]
Pedr Evans dived into the contents of a box of picture post-cards; from the shop counter all that could be seen of him was the back of broad shoulders, two inches of sturdy neck, well-shaped ears, and a thatch of brown hair. The box, which was large and placed on a shelf behind the counter, gave evidences to the person who could peek over the counter and around Pedr of being in an alarming state of disorder. Apparently the man fumbling among the cards intended to rearrange them; at least some line of the figure suggested that this was the impression he wished to convey. But it was as if he were running his hands through sand, for the post-cards slipped from his fingers and fell in even greater confusion. A woman who had entered the shop-door looked at his back a second—she had caught a rim of the face as it had turned quickly away—smiled, lifted her eyebrows, and stuck her tongue into one heavily tinted cheek.
“’Ts, ’ts,” she hissed, behind her teeth.
Pedr wheeled about; in turning he caught the corner of his box of post-cards, and over they went upon the floor.