The repair gang in greasy caps and spotted blue overalls were inspecting the train, pottering about the trucks, opening and closing the journal-boxes, striking clear notes on the wheels with long-handled hammers.
Vandover stood close to his father, his thin legs wide apart, holding in both his hands the satchel he had been permitted to carry.

He looked about him continually, rolling his big eyes vaguely, watching now the repair-gang, now a huge white cat dozing on an empty baggage truck.
Several passengers were walking up and down the platform, staring curiously at the invalid lying back in the steamer chair.
The journey was too much for her.

She was very weak and very pale, her eyelids were heavy, the skin of her forehead looked blue and tightly drawn, and tiny beads of perspiration gathered around the corners of her mouth.

Vandover's father put his hand and arm along the back of the chair and his sick wife rested against him, leaning her head on his waistcoat over the pocket where he kept his cigars and pocket-comb.

They were all silent.
By and by she drew a long sigh, her face became the face of an imbecile, stupid, without expression, her eyes half-closed, her mouth half-open.
Her head rolled forward as though she were nodding in her sleep, while a long drip of saliva trailed from her lower lip.