The screen door had been left ajar and the house was buzzing with flies, hot, with a week's accumulating disorder.

The bread she made last night in fear and trembling, was hanging fatly over the pans; perhaps sour already.

She clapped it into the oven and turned on the heat.
Then she stood, undetermined, looking about that messy kitchen while the big flies bumped and buzzed on the windows, settled on every dish, and swung in giddy circles in the middle of the room.

Turning swiftly she shut the door on them.

The dining-room was nearly as bad.