Fixed in the world of grief, the hours of sorrow passed her by.

There was neither night nor day in the dead watch of the closed room, under the tall candles, burning steadily.
Then, at last, other feet were on the threshold, stumbling, shuffling, ill-shod feet of men bearing a burden.

In that city, one may not lie in his home more than one day after he is dead.

They set down what they bore, beside the couch, and waited, and the woman saw their questioning faces and heard them whispering.

Then one of them, with some reverence and gentleness, thrust his arm under the low pillow, and with his eyes bade another lift the feet.