Frenchwomen of a certain class always knit.

If they were waiting to be electrocuted they would continue knitting.
The bombardment had grown sharper and the rumble of guns was uninterrupted, growling like thunder after a summer storm or as the shells passed shrieking and then bursting with jarring detonations.
Underfoot the pavements were inch-deep with fallen glass, and as you walked it tinkled musically.

With inborn sense of order, some of the housewives abandoned their knitting and calmly swept up the glass into neat piles.

Habit is often so much stronger than fear.

So is curiosity.