Her language (when it did not become too local for my comprehension) was forcible and racy to a degree, and she was not checked by the reserve which clogged Mr.Jonathan's lips.

The following morning she came to the door of the drawing-room (a large dreary room, which, like the rest of the house, was handsomely _upholstered_ rather than furnished), and beckoned mysteriously to me from the door.

I went out to her.
"You'd like to see the body afore they fastens it up ?" she said.
I bent my head and followed her.
"He makes a beautiful corpse," she whispered, as we passed into the room.

It was an incongruous remark, and stirred again an hysterical feeling that had been driving me to laugh when I felt most sad amid all the grotesquely dreary preparations for the "burying." But, like some other sayings that offend ears polite, it had the merit of truth.
It was not the beauty of the Rector's face in death, however, noble as it was, that alone drew from me a cry of admiration when I stooped over his coffin.

From the feet to the breast, utterly hiding the grave clothes, and tastefully grouped about his last pillow, were the most beautiful exotic flowers I ever beheld.