And as soon as the old people said, “Poor Emily,”the whispering began. “Do you suppose it’s really so?”they said to one another. “Of course it is. What else could...”This behind their hands; rustling of craned silk and satin behind jalousies closed upon the sun of Sunday afternoon as the thin, swift clop-clop-clop of the matched team passed: “Poor Emily.”
all this sort of whispering and gossiping about one person reminds of stories such as the crucible