Uncle John has gone downstreet under the watchful eye of the police and the women are all alone in the house draped in heavy mourning. A breeze stirs the black ribbons on the wreath of white lilies on the door.
In the kitchen Emma and Mrs. Churchill are preparing some refreshment for the crowds of funeral attendees who are expected to arrive by 10 a.m. the next day. Bridget is in a hurry to get up to her old room on the third floor to pack up her meager belongings and send her trunk across the street. The clock on the sitting room mantel has been stopped at 11 a.m. and portraits of Abby and Andrew, draped in black crape stare down from the black mantel at the spot where, on the morrow, two long black cloth-covered coffins will lay. The house is eerie, hushed and silent as moats of dust, perfumed by the heavy scent of lilies fills the room . . . . .
Call Hours are at 11- 3 p.m.