So the widow had ruefully put her teapot to sit on the hob until himself came in for, properly speaking, she was at this time not yet a widow and had stepped down her tussocky slope with her double disappointment to Mrs. Kilfoyle. Mrs. Kilfoyle was knitting at her door and not looking out over the bog, where the flushed light of the sunset drowsed on the black sod in an almost tangible fire-film.