The scolding was the vocal music, the scrubbing an accompaniment.

The concordant discord was perfect.

Just at the moment I speak of there was a lull in her scolding.

The symphonious scrubbing went on as usual.
Julia, wishing to divert the next thunder-storm from herself, erected what she imagined might prove a conversational lightning-rod, by asking a question on a topic foreign to the theme of the last march her mother had played and sung so sweetly with brush and voice.
"Mother, what makes Uncle Andrew so queer ?" "I don't know.

He was always queer." This was spoken in a staccato, snapping-turtle way.