The window was shut; there was a smell of varnish and whatever was inside the "suite" of which Mrs Crow occupied the sofa.

Enlarged photographs--very much enlarged--of Mr and Mrs Crow hung upon the walls, and one other of a young girl done in that process which tells you at once that she was an only daughter and that she is dead.

There had been other bereavements; they were written upon the silver coffin-plates which, framed and glazed, also contributed to the decoration of the room; but you would have had to look close, and you might feel a delicacy.
Mrs Crow made her greetings with precision, and sat down again upon the sofa for a few minutes' conversation.
"I'm telling them," said her husband, "that the sleighin's just held out for them.

If it 'ud been tomorrow they'd have had to come on wheels.
Pretty soft travellin' as it was, some places, I guess." "Snow's come early this year," said Mrs Crow.

"It was an open fall, too." "It has certainly," Mr Farquharson backed her up.