"See my shell I found at Grammer's!"
But the old man was blind to beauty. He turned a careless eye upon the
treasure, turned it off again with a formless grunt that might have been
perfunctory praise, and resumed his half-muttered talk to himself,
marked by little oblique nods of triumph--some endless dispute that he
seemed to hold with an invisible opponent.
The owner of the shell was chilled but not daunted. There would surely
be others less benighted who must acclaim the shell's charm.
Presently he was at the familiar front gate and his father, looking
unusual, somehow, came to lift him down.
"See my shell I found at Grammer's!"
"Your mother is dead."
"See my shell I found at Grammer's!"
"Your mother is dead."
It was the sinister iteration by which he was stricken, rather than the
news itself. The latter only stunned. His hand in his father's, he went
up the walk and into the house. There were women inside, women who moved
with an effect of bustling stillness, the same women who had so often
asked him what his name was. They seemed to know it well enough now. He
was aware that his entrance created no little sensation. One of them
kissed him and told him not to cry, but he had no thought of crying. He
became aware of the thing in his hands.
"See my shell I found at Grammer's!"
The invitation was a general one. They looked in silence and some of
them moved about, and then through a doorway he saw in the next room an
object long and dark and shining set on two chairs.
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